hell: the remorseless, ceaseless pressure of vehicles travelling onwards to destinations that in the aggregate were absurd, each under its atomised separate compulsion, brought together in this filthy flow, poisoning the air with fumes and noise.
– But I’m here now. Let me in.
There was a pause; then resignation. – I’ll come down.
When she appeared she was in the same black cardigan as last time, over a pink nightshirt and slippers. Her face was pasty and she hadn’t brushed her hair, which was pulled out of its bunches and loose on her shoulders; he guessed she had come straight from bed. From under the nightdress her swollen belly poked assertively.
– I forgot you were coming today.
As he followed her up to the flat, something about the place elated him, even while he was intent on getting Pia out of it. He was bracing himself for encountering Marek again, reading him more deeply, for better or worse: when he realised there was no one home besides Pia, he was almost disappointed. She said they had gone out.
– They?
– Marek and Anna.
The television was switched on, inevitably. The place looked a bit better than last time: at least the spare bedding was folded in a pile on the floor, the blinds pulled halfway up. The smell of dope was pungent, though the windows were open. Perhaps Pia hadn’t been in bed, but tidying: in the kitchen there was crockery piled in a fresh bowl of soapy water, and while she waited for the kettle to boil to make tea, she did rinse a few plates and propped them on the draining board. Paul asked about her pregnancy, her appointment at the hospital: into her expression there came the same vagueness as last time. The doctors thought from the scan she was twenty-eight weeks, or something like that. Everything was fine.
– You see. I told you it was too late for a termination.
– And are you planning on keeping this baby? Or putting it up for adoption?
– I don’t know. We’ll see. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.
She said this as offhandedly as if she was choosing between subjects for her college course.
– Are you eating properly? Aren’t there vitamins and so on you’re supposed to take?
– Anna’s taking care of that.
– People are smoking in this flat. I’m sure you know how bad that is for a developing foetus.
– Oh, Dad.
– What?
– You smoked around me all the time when I was a kid. I used to beg and plead with you to stop.
– Did I? It’s not the same thing. Anyway, just because I was an idiot doesn’t mean you have to be one too.
Pia dressed in the bedroom while Paul drank his tea. She came out in a new stretch top she said Marek had bought her, grey with huge yellow flowers, pulled tightly across her stomach, showing it off, as was the fashion with pregnancy now. Then, sitting beside him on the sofa, she made up her face in deft accustomed movements, looking in a small hand-mirror, concentrating intently, putting on a surprising amount of stuff: colour on her skin to cover her blemishes, blue lines painted around her eyes, stiff blue on her lashes, colour on her lids, pale lipstick.
– What? she asked anxiously when she’d finished, putting bottles and tubes away in a zip bag. – Have I put on too much?
The mask of beauty painted on her face seemed precarious. When she stood up to brush her hair he was startled, as if there was someone new in the room between them. He imagined her days passing – sleeping late, tidying half-heartedly, dressing and painting her face, waiting for her lover to come home. When he asked if she wasn’t missing university work she shuddered, as if he’d reminded her of another life.
– God, no. I was so miserable there.
– It won’t be like this, he said, – if you have a baby. Getting up at three o’clock in the afternoon.
– You never trust that I will be good at anything.
He tried to say that this was not what he meant; he just didn’t want the baby to spoil her flight and bring her
– But I’m here now. Let me in.
There was a pause; then resignation. – I’ll come down.
When she appeared she was in the same black cardigan as last time, over a pink nightshirt and slippers. Her face was pasty and she hadn’t brushed her hair, which was pulled out of its bunches and loose on her shoulders; he guessed she had come straight from bed. From under the nightdress her swollen belly poked assertively.
– I forgot you were coming today.
As he followed her up to the flat, something about the place elated him, even while he was intent on getting Pia out of it. He was bracing himself for encountering Marek again, reading him more deeply, for better or worse: when he realised there was no one home besides Pia, he was almost disappointed. She said they had gone out.
– They?
– Marek and Anna.
The television was switched on, inevitably. The place looked a bit better than last time: at least the spare bedding was folded in a pile on the floor, the blinds pulled halfway up. The smell of dope was pungent, though the windows were open. Perhaps Pia hadn’t been in bed, but tidying: in the kitchen there was crockery piled in a fresh bowl of soapy water, and while she waited for the kettle to boil to make tea, she did rinse a few plates and propped them on the draining board. Paul asked about her pregnancy, her appointment at the hospital: into her expression there came the same vagueness as last time. The doctors thought from the scan she was twenty-eight weeks, or something like that. Everything was fine.
– You see. I told you it was too late for a termination.
– And are you planning on keeping this baby? Or putting it up for adoption?
– I don’t know. We’ll see. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.
She said this as offhandedly as if she was choosing between subjects for her college course.
– Are you eating properly? Aren’t there vitamins and so on you’re supposed to take?
– Anna’s taking care of that.
– People are smoking in this flat. I’m sure you know how bad that is for a developing foetus.
– Oh, Dad.
– What?
– You smoked around me all the time when I was a kid. I used to beg and plead with you to stop.
– Did I? It’s not the same thing. Anyway, just because I was an idiot doesn’t mean you have to be one too.
Pia dressed in the bedroom while Paul drank his tea. She came out in a new stretch top she said Marek had bought her, grey with huge yellow flowers, pulled tightly across her stomach, showing it off, as was the fashion with pregnancy now. Then, sitting beside him on the sofa, she made up her face in deft accustomed movements, looking in a small hand-mirror, concentrating intently, putting on a surprising amount of stuff: colour on her skin to cover her blemishes, blue lines painted around her eyes, stiff blue on her lashes, colour on her lids, pale lipstick.
– What? she asked anxiously when she’d finished, putting bottles and tubes away in a zip bag. – Have I put on too much?
The mask of beauty painted on her face seemed precarious. When she stood up to brush her hair he was startled, as if there was someone new in the room between them. He imagined her days passing – sleeping late, tidying half-heartedly, dressing and painting her face, waiting for her lover to come home. When he asked if she wasn’t missing university work she shuddered, as if he’d reminded her of another life.
– God, no. I was so miserable there.
– It won’t be like this, he said, – if you have a baby. Getting up at three o’clock in the afternoon.
– You never trust that I will be good at anything.
He tried to say that this was not what he meant; he just didn’t want the baby to spoil her flight and bring her
Similar Books
