a dumpy maid who showed a friendly disrespect for my cousin. We entered a well-furnished parlour. Almost immediately a large, dark-eyed woman in a green silk dress billowed in on us. ‘You were to telephone, Shura! We’d have sent a cab or the carriage. How did you get here?’
‘Tram,’ was Shura’s laconic answer.
She was distressed, but smiled at him. ‘You should have waited for your Uncle Semya to order ...’
‘We’d be waiting still in that mob,’ Shura told her. ‘Have you seen it recently? It’s madness with the War on. Cabs? You’d be lucky.’
She patted his crew-cut. ‘Semya still has some business. He would have liked ... Ah, well...’
I lowered my bags to the carpet. She spread her arms. ‘Maxim!’ A sigh. ‘I am your Aunt Genia.’
We embraced.
‘We are so pleased, you know. And how is your dear mother?’
‘She is well, thank you, Aunt Genia.’
‘Such a burden. And such a brave woman. But so proud. Well, there is pride and pride.’
I accepted the praise, detecting no criticism of my mother. I was to guess, when I reviewed the past, that there had been rivalry between the women. Perhaps my Aunt Evgenia, my mother’s sister-in-law, had offered charity which had been refused. Perhaps they had even loved the same man, my father. Families are full of such ordinary jealousies. They are not even worth puzzling over. How some people will alter the past. I have seen mature men and women become utter fools in their attempts to pretend things happened in ways other than they actually did. We all like to see ourselves in a good light, of course, but the lengths to which some go are quite astonishing.
We sat for about twenty minutes in the parlour while Aunt Genia warbled on like a restful canary. I realised that my eyelids were beginning to droop just as she became a macaw:
‘Food!’
I grew alert. We entered another room. The place was a castle. Here were red and white German soup plates and a tureen of bortsch decorated with scenes of Danzig or Munich. There were two different kinds of bread, already sliced, and butter. I sat down at once, but Shura shook his head and said he had to leave.
I had learned never to refuse food. Also I was becoming so unable to distinguish reality from imagination by that time that I thought a meal would help bring me down to earth. It was wonderful bortsch. It was an Odessa bortsch, like drinking rubies. It was spicy and filling. While Aunt Genia continued to talk, I ate steadily. I was swollen by the time the macaw squawked again:
‘Bed!’
The dumpy girl with ginger hair and a good-humoured face reappeared. She was some sort of poor relation working as a servant. ‘Wanda. Take Maxim Arturovitch to his room.’
My case was picked up in one wet, red hand, while the other gestured to the door. I followed. Aunt Genia chirruped a goodnight and kissed me. I should ask Wanda for anything I required. Off we went, up flights of dark, heavily-carpeted stairs, with each landing smelling a little differently, until we were at the top of the house and Wanda opened a door. ‘I’m next to you,’ she said. She entered ahead of me into bronze half-light and reached to turn a tap to make the gas glow a little brighter. ‘Here we are.’
I had not realised I was to have an entire room to myself. A real bed, dressing-table, chest of drawers, blinds I could open or shut at will, a window: I went to my window. It looked out onto the square - a haze of yellow lamps and dark shadows. From one of the distant, mysterious houses came a high-pitched laugh, something of a wail, which echoed in the square, for it was late and even Odessa was half-asleep. Wanda’s warm, smelly body came up behind me. She showed me how to work the blinds. ‘Best keep ‘em shut if you’ve got the gas going,’ she said. ‘Moths.’ Her voice was lazy, soft and friendly. I was to discover later that this was a
‘Tram,’ was Shura’s laconic answer.
She was distressed, but smiled at him. ‘You should have waited for your Uncle Semya to order ...’
‘We’d be waiting still in that mob,’ Shura told her. ‘Have you seen it recently? It’s madness with the War on. Cabs? You’d be lucky.’
She patted his crew-cut. ‘Semya still has some business. He would have liked ... Ah, well...’
I lowered my bags to the carpet. She spread her arms. ‘Maxim!’ A sigh. ‘I am your Aunt Genia.’
We embraced.
‘We are so pleased, you know. And how is your dear mother?’
‘She is well, thank you, Aunt Genia.’
‘Such a burden. And such a brave woman. But so proud. Well, there is pride and pride.’
I accepted the praise, detecting no criticism of my mother. I was to guess, when I reviewed the past, that there had been rivalry between the women. Perhaps my Aunt Evgenia, my mother’s sister-in-law, had offered charity which had been refused. Perhaps they had even loved the same man, my father. Families are full of such ordinary jealousies. They are not even worth puzzling over. How some people will alter the past. I have seen mature men and women become utter fools in their attempts to pretend things happened in ways other than they actually did. We all like to see ourselves in a good light, of course, but the lengths to which some go are quite astonishing.
We sat for about twenty minutes in the parlour while Aunt Genia warbled on like a restful canary. I realised that my eyelids were beginning to droop just as she became a macaw:
‘Food!’
I grew alert. We entered another room. The place was a castle. Here were red and white German soup plates and a tureen of bortsch decorated with scenes of Danzig or Munich. There were two different kinds of bread, already sliced, and butter. I sat down at once, but Shura shook his head and said he had to leave.
I had learned never to refuse food. Also I was becoming so unable to distinguish reality from imagination by that time that I thought a meal would help bring me down to earth. It was wonderful bortsch. It was an Odessa bortsch, like drinking rubies. It was spicy and filling. While Aunt Genia continued to talk, I ate steadily. I was swollen by the time the macaw squawked again:
‘Bed!’
The dumpy girl with ginger hair and a good-humoured face reappeared. She was some sort of poor relation working as a servant. ‘Wanda. Take Maxim Arturovitch to his room.’
My case was picked up in one wet, red hand, while the other gestured to the door. I followed. Aunt Genia chirruped a goodnight and kissed me. I should ask Wanda for anything I required. Off we went, up flights of dark, heavily-carpeted stairs, with each landing smelling a little differently, until we were at the top of the house and Wanda opened a door. ‘I’m next to you,’ she said. She entered ahead of me into bronze half-light and reached to turn a tap to make the gas glow a little brighter. ‘Here we are.’
I had not realised I was to have an entire room to myself. A real bed, dressing-table, chest of drawers, blinds I could open or shut at will, a window: I went to my window. It looked out onto the square - a haze of yellow lamps and dark shadows. From one of the distant, mysterious houses came a high-pitched laugh, something of a wail, which echoed in the square, for it was late and even Odessa was half-asleep. Wanda’s warm, smelly body came up behind me. She showed me how to work the blinds. ‘Best keep ‘em shut if you’ve got the gas going,’ she said. ‘Moths.’ Her voice was lazy, soft and friendly. I was to discover later that this was a
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