Read Online Where the Devil Can't Go by Anya Lipska - Free Book Online
Authors: Anya Lipska
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“Alright, Copetka. I know dinner is running a bit late at Hotel Kiszka,” said Janusz, towelling off the last suds. With fluid grace the cat turned and led him to the kitchen cupboard.
After feeding him, Janusz opened the kitchen window to let the cat onto the fire escape and watched as he trotted down the half dozen flights of stairs. Through the gathering dusk, he could make out the first daffodils under the plane trees that edged Highbury Fields.
These days, it was one of North London’s most select areas. But back in the early Eighties, when the latest wave of the Polish Diaspora had washed him up on the shores of Islington, the locals – better-off English working class types – couldn’t get out fast enough. Taking their place were Paddies, Poles and blacks, and a few bohemian types who weren’t fazed by the area’s reputation as crime central. The flat had been a cheap place to flop once he’d split the rent with workmates from building sites. And he’d always liked the view.
By the time his Jewish landlord had decided to up sticks and head for the Promised Land, Janusz had earned enough for a deposit and got a mortgage to buy the place. Now, his only problem was the odd funny look from his newer neighbours, the City types and advertising executives who were taken aback to find a Polish immigrant living next door in a Highbury mansion block. Well, tough luck, he thought, he was here first.
Janusz went to the fridge to check he had everything he needed for supper – Kasia would be arriving in less than an hour. He was happy with the look of the beef, a good dark-coloured fat-marbled slab of braising steak he’d paid a crazy price for at Islington’s farmer’s market. It was always worth spending an extra pound or two when it came to meat.
He levered open the big bay window in the living room to get rid of the smell of stale cigars, and picked up a dirty glass and a pile of junk mail off the mantelpiece of the marble fireplace. Then he put them back, smiling to himself: Kasia would enjoy cleaning the place up later.
The evening started out well enough.
Sure, he and Kasia had been reserved with each other at first, an edge of awkwardness to their embrace at the door, but since this was their first date since they’d first slept together two weeks ago, that was to be expected. That night, a fortnight ago now, had been the culmination of weeks of assignations over coffee and cake snatched during her work breaks – encounters that couldn’t have been more tantalisingly proper had they been chaperoned by a brace of Babcia. It was just his luck, reflected Janusz, to be dating the world’s most straitlaced stripper.
While Kasia tidied the living room, exclaiming at the mess, he cut the beef into three centimetre chunks, and started to chop the onion and garlic.
After a few minutes she came and leant against the worktop and lit a cigarette while he browned the beef. “I never saw a Polish man cook before – not even a boiled egg!” she said, watching him slice a red pepper. He shrugged. “I think it’s good,” she said. “I’m a katastrofa in the kitchen, and anyway, how would I cook with these?” she brandished her sinister talons at him.
“I always meant to ask: why do you paint your nails black?” he asked, quartering the chestnut mushrooms.
“I started doing it when I was a Goth,” she said surveying her outstretched hands. “After that I never changed them.” She shrugged and took a drag of her cig. “Maybe it’s nice to be a bit different.
“So, how did you learn to cook? Do you watch the TV programmes from home?”
He shook his head. “My Mama taught me, right from when I was a little boy.” Using a wooden spoon, he scraped the onion and garlic into the hot oil of the pan, releasing an aromatic sizzle. “When there was nothing in the shops we’d take a basket into the countryside to find treats for Tata’s supper. In the summer, wild asparagus, lingonberries to
“Alright, Copetka. I know dinner is running a bit late at Hotel Kiszka,” said Janusz, towelling off the last suds. With fluid grace the cat turned and led him to the kitchen cupboard.
After feeding him, Janusz opened the kitchen window to let the cat onto the fire escape and watched as he trotted down the half dozen flights of stairs. Through the gathering dusk, he could make out the first daffodils under the plane trees that edged Highbury Fields.
These days, it was one of North London’s most select areas. But back in the early Eighties, when the latest wave of the Polish Diaspora had washed him up on the shores of Islington, the locals – better-off English working class types – couldn’t get out fast enough. Taking their place were Paddies, Poles and blacks, and a few bohemian types who weren’t fazed by the area’s reputation as crime central. The flat had been a cheap place to flop once he’d split the rent with workmates from building sites. And he’d always liked the view.
By the time his Jewish landlord had decided to up sticks and head for the Promised Land, Janusz had earned enough for a deposit and got a mortgage to buy the place. Now, his only problem was the odd funny look from his newer neighbours, the City types and advertising executives who were taken aback to find a Polish immigrant living next door in a Highbury mansion block. Well, tough luck, he thought, he was here first.
Janusz went to the fridge to check he had everything he needed for supper – Kasia would be arriving in less than an hour. He was happy with the look of the beef, a good dark-coloured fat-marbled slab of braising steak he’d paid a crazy price for at Islington’s farmer’s market. It was always worth spending an extra pound or two when it came to meat.
He levered open the big bay window in the living room to get rid of the smell of stale cigars, and picked up a dirty glass and a pile of junk mail off the mantelpiece of the marble fireplace. Then he put them back, smiling to himself: Kasia would enjoy cleaning the place up later.
The evening started out well enough.
Sure, he and Kasia had been reserved with each other at first, an edge of awkwardness to their embrace at the door, but since this was their first date since they’d first slept together two weeks ago, that was to be expected. That night, a fortnight ago now, had been the culmination of weeks of assignations over coffee and cake snatched during her work breaks – encounters that couldn’t have been more tantalisingly proper had they been chaperoned by a brace of Babcia. It was just his luck, reflected Janusz, to be dating the world’s most straitlaced stripper.
While Kasia tidied the living room, exclaiming at the mess, he cut the beef into three centimetre chunks, and started to chop the onion and garlic.
After a few minutes she came and leant against the worktop and lit a cigarette while he browned the beef. “I never saw a Polish man cook before – not even a boiled egg!” she said, watching him slice a red pepper. He shrugged. “I think it’s good,” she said. “I’m a katastrofa in the kitchen, and anyway, how would I cook with these?” she brandished her sinister talons at him.
“I always meant to ask: why do you paint your nails black?” he asked, quartering the chestnut mushrooms.
“I started doing it when I was a Goth,” she said surveying her outstretched hands. “After that I never changed them.” She shrugged and took a drag of her cig. “Maybe it’s nice to be a bit different.
“So, how did you learn to cook? Do you watch the TV programmes from home?”
He shook his head. “My Mama taught me, right from when I was a little boy.” Using a wooden spoon, he scraped the onion and garlic into the hot oil of the pan, releasing an aromatic sizzle. “When there was nothing in the shops we’d take a basket into the countryside to find treats for Tata’s supper. In the summer, wild asparagus, lingonberries to
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