Daiva kept there in case friends came around, which they never did any more. Taking the bottle and a glass, I went to the balcony and poured myself a drink. It was a few minutes before she emerged. There was a taxi waiting which she must have ordered before I came home. She stepped into it and it drew away slowly, jolting in the deep potholes. I watched until it turned into the thick flow of traffic on Freedom Boulevard.
Lying on the sofa, I drank some more of the brandy. Daiva had forgotten to take Lauraâs teddy bear, I noticed, the one I had bought her some weeks before. I picked it up and fondled it. When I lay down, though, it was of Vassily that I thought. He lay silent now. His stories had been stilled. Vassily had rebuilt me, had enabled me to forget, to find new purpose in life. But now he was gone.
Chapter 8
When I awoke the next morning, Lauraâs teddy bear was clasped tight in my hand, while beside me, on the floor, the bottle of brandy lay on its side, empty. With my ear pressed painfully to the floor, I could hear the sound of the couple in the apartment below shuffling through their morning routines â the run of water, a manâs cough followed by the trumpeting of his nose, the sharp bark of his wife calling him and his responding grunt; the sound of their feet moving slowly across the floorboards, unhurried, following their accustomed patterns, patterns that had taken them through thirty years of marriage, the birth and rearing of children, the loss of their eldest boy in Afghanistan, communism, revolution, jobs and unemployment.
I rolled on to my back and felt a paralysingly sharp pain shoot down my spine. My arm was numb and my fingers cold and lifeless. I flexed them, working some blood back into circulation. Beneath me I heard the sound of a chair being pulled out from the table and its creak as my neighbour sat down to his breakfast.
My own apartment was eerily silent. Laura always woke early. It was the first sound of the day, her small cry, followed by the sound of Daiva turning in her sleep, waking slowly. Laura would stand at the bars of her cot and call to us. Daivaâs voice would be thick and rough with sleep, and the bed would dip as she levered herself up. They would wander out to the kitchen, leaving the door open so I could hear them talk as Daiva lit the hob and warmed some milk. Later she would drop Laura on the bed beside me, and put a cup of coffee on the small table beside me, and I would sit up then and watch as my daughter played.
Once the feeling returned to my left side, and the pain had receded from my neck, I raised myself into a sitting position. The curtains were not drawn and a tentative early morning glow lightened the room. Far away, in the distance, the clouds had broken up a little and there was a glimmer of bright sky. My head throbbed and the clothes I was still dressed in felt soiled. I stripped them off, letting them drop on to the sofa.
The water in the shower was hot and beat against my skin. For a long time I stood there, allowing it to wash over me, warm me, ease the muscles knotted in my shoulders. I held my face up to the surging jets and closed my eyes.
The moment I turned off the shower tap, the telephone rang. Its shrill tone echoed in the empty apartment, jangling, insistent. The sudden burst of noise made my pulse race. I stood riveted in the bathtub, the water trickling around my feet, listening to the sound. Looking down at my hands, I noticed they were shaking.
Reproving myself, I stepped out of the bath. Taking a towel from the hot-water pipe, I rubbed myself down quickly. It would be Daiva, I thought, and a sudden small bubble of hope rose from deep within me and burst through the surface of my consciousness. I opened the door and hurried across the hallway to the telephone, my bare feet leaving damp prints on the wooden tiles. As I put my hand on the heavy black receiver it fell silent. I knew, even before I had put it to my ear,
Lying on the sofa, I drank some more of the brandy. Daiva had forgotten to take Lauraâs teddy bear, I noticed, the one I had bought her some weeks before. I picked it up and fondled it. When I lay down, though, it was of Vassily that I thought. He lay silent now. His stories had been stilled. Vassily had rebuilt me, had enabled me to forget, to find new purpose in life. But now he was gone.
Chapter 8
When I awoke the next morning, Lauraâs teddy bear was clasped tight in my hand, while beside me, on the floor, the bottle of brandy lay on its side, empty. With my ear pressed painfully to the floor, I could hear the sound of the couple in the apartment below shuffling through their morning routines â the run of water, a manâs cough followed by the trumpeting of his nose, the sharp bark of his wife calling him and his responding grunt; the sound of their feet moving slowly across the floorboards, unhurried, following their accustomed patterns, patterns that had taken them through thirty years of marriage, the birth and rearing of children, the loss of their eldest boy in Afghanistan, communism, revolution, jobs and unemployment.
I rolled on to my back and felt a paralysingly sharp pain shoot down my spine. My arm was numb and my fingers cold and lifeless. I flexed them, working some blood back into circulation. Beneath me I heard the sound of a chair being pulled out from the table and its creak as my neighbour sat down to his breakfast.
My own apartment was eerily silent. Laura always woke early. It was the first sound of the day, her small cry, followed by the sound of Daiva turning in her sleep, waking slowly. Laura would stand at the bars of her cot and call to us. Daivaâs voice would be thick and rough with sleep, and the bed would dip as she levered herself up. They would wander out to the kitchen, leaving the door open so I could hear them talk as Daiva lit the hob and warmed some milk. Later she would drop Laura on the bed beside me, and put a cup of coffee on the small table beside me, and I would sit up then and watch as my daughter played.
Once the feeling returned to my left side, and the pain had receded from my neck, I raised myself into a sitting position. The curtains were not drawn and a tentative early morning glow lightened the room. Far away, in the distance, the clouds had broken up a little and there was a glimmer of bright sky. My head throbbed and the clothes I was still dressed in felt soiled. I stripped them off, letting them drop on to the sofa.
The water in the shower was hot and beat against my skin. For a long time I stood there, allowing it to wash over me, warm me, ease the muscles knotted in my shoulders. I held my face up to the surging jets and closed my eyes.
The moment I turned off the shower tap, the telephone rang. Its shrill tone echoed in the empty apartment, jangling, insistent. The sudden burst of noise made my pulse race. I stood riveted in the bathtub, the water trickling around my feet, listening to the sound. Looking down at my hands, I noticed they were shaking.
Reproving myself, I stepped out of the bath. Taking a towel from the hot-water pipe, I rubbed myself down quickly. It would be Daiva, I thought, and a sudden small bubble of hope rose from deep within me and burst through the surface of my consciousness. I opened the door and hurried across the hallway to the telephone, my bare feet leaving damp prints on the wooden tiles. As I put my hand on the heavy black receiver it fell silent. I knew, even before I had put it to my ear,
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