2005 - A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka Page A

ask myself, why should I helping a man who is not only not a Ukrainian, but is so much a Russian that he fails Estonian Language examination? Tell me this.”
    “So she bought him a new Lada?”
    “Not new. Second-hand. Not too expensive, by the way. One thousand pounds. You see in this country Lada is not considered to be chic car.” (He pronounces it the French way—“sheek’. He fancies himself as a bit of a francophone.) Too heavy body for engine size. Inefficient fuel consumption. Old-style transmission. But in Ukraina a Lada is good because plenty of spare parts. Maybe it isn’t even for her brother. Maybe she will sell and make a good profit.”
    “So she’s driving about in two cars?”
    “No. Lada sits in garage. Rover sits on drive.”
    “But she has no money to pay the phone bill.”
    “Aha. Telephone. Now here is a problem. Too much talking. Husband, brother, sister, mother, uncle, auntie, friend, cousin. Sometimes Ukrainian but mostly Russian.” As if he wouldn’t mind paying the bill if it was for talking in Ukrainian. “Not intelligent talking. Chatterbox talking.” He wouldn’t mind paying the bill if it was for talking about Nietzsche and Schopenhauer.
    “Pappa, tell her if she doesn’t pay the phone will be cut off.”
    “Hmm. Yes.” He says yes, but his tone says no.
    He can’t do it. He can’t stand up to her. Or maybe he doesn’t really want to. He just wants to complain, to have our sympathy.
    “You must be firmer with her.” I can feel his resistance down the telephone line, but I plug on. “She doesn’t understand. She believes that in the West everyone is a millionaire.”
    “Aha.”
    A few days later he rings again. The Rover has broken down again. This time it’s the hydraulic braking system. Oh, and it failed its MOT. He needs to borrow more money.
    “Only until I get my pension.”
    “You see?” I rage at Mike. “They’re both completely mad. Both of them. Why can’t I come from a normal family?”
    “Think how dull it would be.”
    “Oh, I think I could put up with a bit of dullness. I just don’t want all this—not at my time of life.”
    “Well don’t let yourself get too worked up about it, because one thing you can be certain of—it’s going to get worse.” He takes a can of cold beer from the fridge and pours it into two glasses. “You’ve got to give him a chance to have his bit of fun. You shouldn’t interfere.”
    Afterwards, I regretted that I hadn’t interfered more, and earlier.
    It’s impossible, I realise, to keep tabs on things by phone. Time for another visit. I don’t warn my father this time.
    Valentina is out when we arrive, but Stanislav is there. He is up in his room doing his homework, bent low over the page. He works hard. Good boy.
    “Stanislav,” I say, “what’s going on with this car? It seems to be causing a lot of trouble.”
    “Oh, no trouble. It’s all right now. All fixed.” He smiles his cute chipped-tooth smile.
    “But Stanislav, can’t you persuade your mother it would be better to have a smaller car that’s more reliable than this big shiny monster that costs a fortune to run? My father hasn’t got that much money, you know.”
    “Oh, it’s OK now. It’s a very nice car.”
    “But wouldn’t you have been better off with something more reliable, like a Ford Fiesta?”
    “Oh, Ford Fiesta is not a good car. You know, when we were coming here on the motorway we saw a terrible accident between a Ford Fiesta and a Jaguar, and the Ford Fiesta was quite crushed underneath the Jaguar. So you see the bigger car is much better.”
    Is he serious?
    “But Stanislav, my father can’t afford a big car.”
    “Oh, I think he can.” Sweet smile. “He has enough money. He gave Anna some money, didn’t he?” The spectacles slip down his nose. He pushes them back, and looks up at me, meeting my eyes with a cool stare. Maybe not such a good boy.
    “Yes, but…” What can I say? “…that’s up to