Gwennie's Girl Page 31

  ‘Lizzie, you know what I mean. What about coming out there with me? It would be a different sort of adventure. Just send your resignation, you’ve got so many holidays owing you could walk out now and still fulfil your contract.’

  Still, she was silent.

  ‘Lizzie, I love you, and I want to be with you. Please?’

  ‘Would we have to get married, Sam? I mean, even if I did it, couldn’t we just go on as we are?’

  ‘You can come in any guise you like, Lizzie. Just come with me.’

  ‘What would I do, Sam?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything. Or you could write that book you’re always talking about. Or you can sit in the sun and let me look after you instead of you looking after other people all the time.’

  ‘You mean, not have a job?’ Lizzie was startled.

  ‘You could find work if you want it. I know you could,’ he reassured her.

  ‘But Sam, my apartment,’ she said, ‘I love my apartment. I’m so safe here. I like my independence. I like my freedom.’

  He grinned and sang softly, ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.’

  She smiled. They often listened to the old Kris Kristofferson tape while they were driving, sometimes singing along with it at the tops of their voices.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Sam said. ‘It would be wonderful, Lizzie. You’d love it. You’d be safe with me but you’d still be you doing whatever you want to do. Just doing it from Asia instead of Europe.’

  He paid the bill, they said their goodbyes to the waiters and strolled slowly back to the apartment, picking up his suit bag from the car on the way. That night, he was a gentle, tender lover, and Lizzie was relaxed, almost passive, letting herself be caressed and brought to pleasure. She finally slept curled into his back, at peace with him and with herself

  Next morning, he took her to the airport, bought her last renverse for a while, kissed her lovingly and watched her go through to the departures lounge. She liked the way he didn’t hang around. It was always better to just go through and get organised, she thought. She was flying to Moscow where she was to meet up with her interpreter, get some sort of travel documents and fly to Mineralnye Vody. Moscow was bleak, but Lizzie always found Moscow bleak. This time, it was under snow, but even the frosting couldn’t hide the harshness, the dourness of the city. Poverty was always more obvious, more visible every time she came back, and there seemed to be even more beggars, many women, and more desperation in the air. The changes of regime were not improving the lot of many of these people.

  The last time Lizzie had been here, she had been attending a meeting and was staying at the hotel attached to the Russian Patriarchate. That had been summer, the city was stifling and airless and the meeting long. Lizzie’s attention had wandered as she listened to the expressionless monotone of the interpretation. The only word she knew in Russian was Spasibo—“thank you”. The people were anxious to please and Lizzie’s heart went out to them as they struggled to find their way in the new order. Many of them greeted her as she came in and out or wandered, finding her way around the endless corridors.

  When the meeting finally finished, she scuttled back to her tiny room, stripped off all her clothes and flung herself down on the bed with its thin blanket inside the sheet bag with its funny hole in one side. When Lizzie first saw one of these bags, she had almost tied herself in knots and torn the sheeting because she had thought she was somehow supposed to sleep inside it. After the meeting that time, she had been relaxed, glad that she was flying home the next day, when the telephone had rung. She had answered it but could only make out some of the words. She told friends later that it had sounded like Peter Sellers this time “doing a Russian”. She had stood listening, naked, and eventually had realised that this man, obviously, wanted to come up to her room and see her. Quickly, she had told him she would meet him in the lobby. As she dressed, she had wondered what it could be about, and she had been slightly irritated that her brief rest was being disturbed. When she arrived in the lobby, a man quickly approached her, grabbed both her hands and pulled her down onto a very slippery, very bulgy, very green leather couch. He had been talking rapidly in broken English. Lizzie smiled and nodded until she had realised what was going on.

  ‘You have cold brain and hot heart, cold brain and hot heart. I see. I know. I watch you all time. Cold brain. Hot heart. Me too. I see. I know. I love you.’

  ‘What?’ said Lizzie.

  The formula had been repeated, but by then Lizzie was backing away along the couch trying to get her hands away from his grip. He followed her. ‘Cold brain.’ Thump on his forehead. ‘Hot heart.’ Whack on his chest. ‘I see. I know. I love you. Cold brain.’ Thump. ‘Hot heart.’ Whack.

  Good grief, Lizzie had thought. If he does that to me I’ll either be unconscious or lose my other boob.

  She had been, by this time, right at the end of the slippery, green couch leaning as far back as possible so she was more or less pinioned between the fat leather arm and his two thin fierce hands. He kept repeating, ‘Cold brain.’ Thump. ‘Hot heart.’ Whack. ‘I see. I know. I love you.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Lizzie. ‘Spasibo.’

  He had clearly taken this for encouragement and had her almost horizontal over the arm of the couch so she felt as though she was in an old Doris Day and Carey Grant movie until, with a shove and a twist, Lizzie had gotten herself free. She had almost slipped to the floor in the process, vaguely aware of black-clothed figures, passing back and forth in the lobby, but no one had seemed to notice the foreign woman being made love to by this whacking, crazy man.

  ‘Now, you come me. You come me,’ he was insisting.

  ‘Where?’ said Lizzie as she found her feet.

  ‘We go Moscow.’

  ‘We are in Moscow,’ she had said. Shit, he really was crazy.

  ‘We go Moscow now. You come me. Now. I take you.’

  Like hell, mate. ‘Spasibo, Spasibo. But I have much work to do. Much work,’ Lizzie had tried to be polite.

  ‘Me wait. Me wait. All time. Me wait.’

  ‘No, Spasibo. Spasibo. But goodbye. Goodbye.’

  She had wrenched her hands out of his grip and headed back to her room, She had stayed there until it had been time to go to the airport and, later, she had realised how desperation made people do funny things. He had probably seen her in the meeting, a foreign, middle-aged woman not wearing a wedding ring. Maybe he had thought this might be a chance for him to get out of a way of life that was grinding and soul destroying. Maybe. She had not really known.

  This time, she was taken straight from the plane to meet her interpreter, a young man, Gregor, keen to please his bosses and happy to make an international contact. He wore a grey suit and neat shoes for the whole time they were together, even close to the frontline. His only concession to being outside his cubicle office was to put on a thick parka and gloves. Otherwise, mud, snow, rain, he wore the grey suit. He had tickets already booked for them on the flight to Mineralnye Vody and, with a sinking feeling, Lizzie realised that they were flying Aeroflot, not her favourite airline—and this would be a domestic run.

  Lizzie had a brief audience with the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, and Gregor received a sheet of paper signed by the Patriarch which apparently gave Lizzie’s name and said in Russian, something like, “We know she is here”.

  It was certainly not the official document that Lizzie had been expecting. ‘Will that get us through, Gregor?’ she asked.

  ‘We have no time to get anything else.’ That was not exactly an answer to her question, but Lizzie had no intention of hanging around Moscow for weeks fighting the tangled web of Russian bureaucracy.

  ‘OK, let’s go for it,’ she agreed,

  The domestic terminal did not cheer her up at all. The snow was slush, the floors inside the halls were awash with mud and the waiting area was freezing cold. When they had finally made it through the gates, they
had to enter the plane through the luggage area, dump their bags and climb the stairs to the seating. This was reminiscent of Air Armenia, but Gregor pushed his way quickly to two seats, one next to the window, and defended them against all comers until Lizzie reached him. They waited on the ground for an hour and a half, then there was an announcement.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Lizzie asked Gregor.

  ‘We are not going direct to Mineralnye Vody. We are going first to another place.’

  ‘What other place?’

  ‘I did not catch what they said. Anyway, it does not matter. After that we go to Mineralnye Vody.’

  ‘Any idea how long it will take?’ Lizzie asked, knowing it was a silly question.

  ‘No, but do not worry, Lizzie. All will be well.’

  So she settled back, and eventually they took off, flew for two hours and then landed.

  ‘So, where are we?’ she asked Gregor.

  He shrugged. ‘I am not sure. No matter. All will be well.’

  Lizzie was beginning to realise that (a) Gregor had never travelled before, at least never by plane and (b) he was apparently under orders to keep her—and himself—calm.

  So be it, she thought. When everyone began to leave the plane, Gregor held back until almost all the passengers had left. Then he disappeared down the back of the passenger area for a while. After a few minutes, he returned. ‘Lizzie, I think it better you stay on the plane. I will bring you something to eat.’

  ‘Why?’

  He said, ‘There will be much security here. You have no proper paper. I think it will be better you stay.’

  ‘No one else is staying,’ Lizzie pointed out.

  ‘No. Everyone must leave the plane. It is ordered. But I talk to my friend,’ a gesture to the back of the plane. ‘He agree you stay. Just stretch out and rest. I will return.’

  Now why did that have an ominous ring?

  Gregor left, and Lizzie made herself as comfortable as she could and settled to try to sleep. It had already been a long, long day. Last night with Sam seemed decades away in another lifetime. She closed her eyes and tried to relax in the cold silence. She was alone for perhaps thirty or forty minutes, then she felt rather than heard a change in the stillness, opened her eyes and looked up to see a soldier standing at the end of the three seats on which she was stretched out. His hands went to his belt as he looked down on her. She heard another movement. He gestured to two other soldiers who came remarkably quickly to join him. He seemed to ask them a question and indicated Lizzie. All three looked around quickly then one moved away to watch the entrance. The first one’s hands started to undo the buckle on his belt. Lizzie was so terrified she really could not move. Anyway, there was no way past them. She was frozen, watching the soldier’s hands. He was grinning. Then, before she had even tried screaming, she heard voices from the lower section. The watcher said something and shook his head. The hands on the buckle were still. The men exchanged comments but by now people were coming up the steps so with a shrug, all three moved back in the plane and disappeared from Lizzie’s view. She was trembling—and not from the cold. She stayed where she was until Gregor came back.

  ‘All OK?’

  She just nodded, still too shaken to speak. What could she say?

  Eventually, they landed at Mineralnye Vody and were met by a Russian Orthodox priest and his small, round, black-clad wife. It seemed Lizzie and Gregor were staying the night with couple. The church and its building, including the old couple’s home, and what looked like a communal farm, seemed to spread in all directions, crowded and with bits apparently added haphazardly until the small block of land was covered in wooden buildings.

  Gregor and Lizzie were taken to a tiny kitchen where there was hot, thin soup and stale, thick bread waiting for them. They were so hungry that it tasted great. Then Lizzie was shown to a room with a single bed made up against the wall. The wall next to the bed was a gaping hole showing struts and broken plaster and she could look through to the outside walls. On the other side of the room was an icon with a burning red oil lamp suspended in front of it, and there was a shelf with what looked like liturgical paraphernalia. By now, it was quite dark and the only light in the room came from the oil lamp with its red glass throwing diamond shapes to illuminate the icon.

  The old lady took Lizzie by the hand and led her through a maze between the buildings until they came to a toilet with a broken washstand. Lizzie turned to say thank you (the inevitable Spasibo) but her hand was hanging loose because the old lady had disappeared into the blackness. Lizzie was quite alone and quite sure that she would spend the rest of her life roaming this maze and may never be found again for decades until someone discovered her skeletal remains in a room that had not been entered by humans since the late 20th century. Was she prone to exaggeration? You bloody bet she was.

  However, she made her ablutions, which was a fancy way of saying she used the loo, gave thanks that she had a tissue in her pocket, ran her hands under the trickle of cold water, splashed her face, took a deep breath and decided she might as well attempt the return journey.

  Once her eyes grew accustomed to the night, there was some light, and after several wrong turns she, eventually, saw the doorway to her room and recognised the dull red light. Just as she was relaxing and making her way up the three wooden steps, a cat rushed out of the room past her legs. It was all she could do not to scream. Not at the cat, but at the ginormous rat that it held in its mouth. Oh bloody, bloody hell. There were many things that Lizzie could face when she was afraid; but not rats. Ever since she was a little girl, she had hated rats, had been truly afraid of them. Her pulse hammered in her head, her legs went weak, and for a short, ghastly moment, she thought she might faint here in the darkness on the steps. This was not make believe; this was deep fear.

  For minutes, she stood holding the frame of the door, unable to move. Then, slowly, she went into the room. How many more would there be? The space between the plaster and the outside walls was probably crawling with them, and her bed was next to the hole. She pulled and pulled, but the bed did not want to move. She was feeling quite frantic when, finally, it responded and, at least, there was a distance of a foot or two between the bed and that gaping piece of blacker blackness. She took off her boots, hoped the icon would offer some protection and cowered under the thin blankets.

  It must have been three or four hours later when she realised there was someone in the room. She sat up with her throat too thick to call out then saw the old lady standing beneath the icon with a small bottle of oil, re-filling the lamp. She finished, turned slowly, nodded and slipped out of the room. Unfortunately, Lizzie was wide awake and, once again, conscious of the possibility of rats. Shit, what a night.

  The next morning, there was more thin soup and bread, and Lizzie realised that these people were sharing what they had, although it was very little. She had come with US dollars and was expecting to hire a car to take them to Mozdok, just outside the border of Chechnya. She had been told it would be expensive, but assumed that after some negotiating they would find someone to take them. Wrong. The priest and his wife talked loudly to Gregor with much shaking of heads and waving of hands.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Lizzie.

  Gregor said, ‘They say it is too dangerous. We must not go by road. There are bandits running wild. Anyone who would take us is not to be trusted.’

  ‘Is there a chance that they’re exaggerating? Maybe they’re very nervous?’

  Gregor spoke again, and the conversation seemed even more forceful. ‘They are very definite. It is too dangerous.’

  Lizzie could see that Gregor was convinced by the old couple, and it would be stupid to push the point. ‘But how do we get to Mozdok?’

  ‘There is a train,’ said Gregor. ‘They will take us to the station and help us with the tickets.’

  ‘Will there be a problem with the tickets?’

  ‘Not with the tickets, Lizzie,’ he replied. ‘The problem
will be with you. You must not speak. They are nervous about what might happen if you are noticed.’

  The old lady must have been following the gist of this because she put her finger to her lips, obviously cautioning Lizzie. Blimey, how often in this job did she have to be invisible?

  ‘OK. How much is the train? How long does it take?’ Gregor asked the questions.

  This time, their hosts were pleased. Lizzie felt like a schoolchild who was “being good”.

  ‘It will take some hours—maybe three, maybe five. It costs the same as US five cents each.’

  So Lizzie was not expecting first class travel, which was just as well. They were taken to the station and waited while the tickets were bought and inspected. By now, Lizzie was wearing a long skirt over thick tights tucked into her boots, and she had a warm jumper under a big long coat, some woollen gloves and a scarf tied around her head. She was carrying one small bag—and her camera bag.

  The old lady approached and took the camera bag, shaking her head. Lizzie got the message. She put spare film and batteries into her pockets and hooked the camera over her arm under the coat. The old lady still seemed anxious but Lizzie made it clear she had to take the camera. Then they were led to the platform, and Lizzie was touched when the old lady gave her a hug and patted the side of her face tenderly. She understood without Gregor’s help the blessing for her safe journey.

  The old couple left, and Lizzie and Gregor waited in silence. This was to be the first of several railway stations where they would see people sitting, waiting or just seeming abandoned with a collection of bags and belongings. There were two women, perhaps mother and daughter, sitting on piles of plastic bags stuffed with personal belongings. It seemed they had been there overnight, perhaps longer. They were absolutely still and silent, and once again, Lizzie saw that look of women gazing into space at something Lizzie could not see. The older woman let tears run down her cheeks. They were holding hands.

  When at last the train arrived, Gregor found them seats in a carriage made of old wooden benches with stiff backs facing each other, and Lizzie was able to observe some of their fellow passengers. Most were women with a sense of shared sorrow as they headed back towards the conflict zone in search of friends or family or just because that was home. There was a pretty, young woman (maybe early twenties) and on her face was a fading yellow bruise. She cowered in a corner scat. When the conductor asked for her ticket, she was trembling as she searched for a piece of paper, presumably authorising her travel.