Florian's Gate (18 page)

Magda lived in a run-down council house attached on both sides to two equally drab tenements. Her neighbors were a rainbow coalition of Indians and Pakistanis and Africans and Arabs, with the odd white face thrown in for good measure. The view from her front porch revealed block after oppressive block of red-brick council houses, whose crumbling facades and dirty windows and peeling woodwork exuded an air of tired resignation.

Magda had the face of a shrew and looked twice her age, which Jeffrey guessed to be something over fifty. A long bony nose thrust from an overly pointed face. Her thin lips sagged under the weight of pasty-colored cheeks. The first time he met her, Jeffrey had the impression of a spoiled child grown into a perpetually unhappy adult. The only color to her face was in her eyes, which peered from sunken burrows with surprising light. Her gray hair was perpetually unkempt and looked hacked with garden shears. It was only partially trapped in place by dozens of bobby pins.

She was always suffering, and each pain had its own signal.
When her arthritis flared, she kept her hands close to her stomach and rubbed them constantly, one with the other. When it was her back, she walked bent at what Jeffrey thought a ridiculous angle, teetering from one chair or other support to another. When it was her shoulder, she stooped inward, as though only one side of her body were whole.

Her expression was one of silent suffering. Jeffrey would sit across from her, searching for something benign to say, imagining her doing a quick check in the mirror before opening the door to greet her daughter. Then he would look up and catch those piercing eyes watching him steadily, and wonder if she could also read minds.

Katya always responded with loving sympathy and heartfelt concern. Always. This transformation from cool and distant beauty to attentive daughter never failed to give him a severe pang of jealousy.

Jeffrey had continued to go with Katya on her regular weekly visits because he had little choice. It was either that or miss seeing her on Saturdays. As it was, he held his breath through the two-hour ordeal, and was rewarded with the pleasure of her company during the train rides and with an evening together afterward.

During his first visit, Jeffrey had been severely stung by Magda's total indifference to his presence. She had inspected him briefly, ignored his smile and outstretched hand, and turned back to her daughter with a painful grimace. He had stood there, as hurt by Katya's silent acceptance of her mother's rudeness as he was by Magda's actions, then turned away. Two could play at that game.

He opened his briefcase and brought out a book he had taken along for the voyage, a text on identifying types of wood. Within a few minutes of sitting down in the farthest corner from Magda's padded chair, he was lost in his work. He registered the musical tone of Katya's voice and Magda's querulous replies, but they did not intrude on his concentration. It was more than half an hour before he felt eyes on him,
looked up, and found Magda watching him with a measuring gaze, as though she were seeing him for the first time.

Today it was her feet. Jeffrey watched her open the door and greet them with a little teary-eyed smile that never slipped, never changed, always crying for attention better than words ever could. Jeffrey pasted on what he hoped was an expression of concern, entered the cramped and cluttered living room behind Katya, watched Magda walk forward with little steps that swayed her body from side to side like a ship at anchor. Every chair, every stool, every low table wore a cushion for a hat.

He stood in the middle of the cluttered room and watched Katya settle her mother back in her customary chair and set the baby's box in her mother's lap. She left Magda crooning over the bird while she went around picking up and setting the room in order with swift little motions. She returned and plucked the shopping bags from Jeffrey's arms and carried them into the kitchen. He started after her, then decided against it. There was barely room in there for one.

Magda finally greeted him with a very tired, “How are you, Jeffrey?”

“Excited,” he said, refusing to play the false sympathy game.

“Ah, how nice.” She settled down farther into the thick padding, raised her legs one at a time with her hands underneath the calves, handling them like hand-blown glass. When both feet were safely on the cushion, she pulled up her cheeks in a long-suffering smile. “And what do you have to celebrate, young man?”

“The director of my store is increasing my responsibilities.”

“A promotion.” She picked up the lace prayer shawl she always wore when Katya took her to church, and laid it across her lap. “How nice for you.”

“It's not a promotion,” Jeffrey said, mentally gripping his teeth to keep his voice casual. She barely seemed to be listening
to him. “Well, not in the sense of a raise or anything. I am going to start traveling for him as a buyer.”

“All young people like so much to travel,” she said, her eyes following Katya's movement in the kitchen. “And where will you be going?”

“East Germany. And perhaps Poland.”

Her eyes snapped around. “Is that so.”

Katya's voice called out from the kitchen. “Jeffrey's boss is Polish, Mama.”

“Is he now. And why haven't I heard of this before?”

Katya returned from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Why should you be interested in who Jeffrey's boss is?”

Her gaze held a strength that belied her ailments. “Because he is your young man, is he not?”

Katya gave her mother a startled glance and vanished back into the kitchen.

“It is remarkable that your little bird has survived this long,” Magda went on. Her speech had a rough-edged quality. “Why did you bring it here?”

“I have a chance to go to Schwerin,” Katya said from the kitchen alcove.

“With Jeffrey?”

“On business. Just for two days.”

Jeffrey held his breath, wondered if Katya was mentioning it in hopes that her mother would object.

“Some questions have come up about a supplier,” Katya went on. “Jeffrey needs me as an interpreter.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Magda replied. “I traveled there once after the war. There are some truly beautiful lakes in that city.”

Katya reappeared in the kitchen doorway. Her face mirrored Jeffrey's astonishment. “You want me to go?”

“You have to see if the old Strand Hotel is still there. It was quite a place in my day.”

“That's where the travel agent has placed us,” Jeffrey said, and added hastily, “in separate rooms.”

“It's such a romantic place,” Magda said, looking at her daughter. “At least it was.”

“Then you don't mind me going?” Katya asked.

“Oh, Katya. You're a big girl now. It's a wonderful opportunity to apply your studies. I always told you the German would come in handy, didn't I?”

Katya entered the room and pulled up a straight-backed chair beside her mother. “Sometimes you surprise me, Mama. I thought it would worry you.”

“Katya Maria, you are an adult woman. You must make your own decisions. I can tell by your eyes that you really want to go.” Her tone sharpened. “Were you hoping that I would say no and give you an excuse?”

Katya remained silent.

“Go,” her mother said. “Have a good time. Be sure to take an extra sweater. It gets quite cold at night by the sea. Don't worry about your little bird. What do you call him?”

“Ling,” Jeffrey offered.

“I've had tougher assignments than this in my life.” She turned to Jeffrey. “You will be sure that she takes her extra sweater along.”

“All right.”

Her wrinkled features took on a hint of a smile. “You think I am acting out of character, young man?”

He started to nod, checked himself just in time.

“The fact is, young man, you don't know my character. Not at all. To you, I am an old sick woman living out her days in a little English town. But I have lived in many places, and lived through many things, that have made me what I am.”

Magda's eyes remained on him. She demanded, “Are you my daughter's boyfriend?”

“I wish I were,” he replied bluntly. “I'm not so sure about what she thinks.”

“Ah, an honest answer.”

“It's what I feel most comfortable with.”

The gaze sparked. “Do you, indeed?”

“Leave him alone, Mama,” Katya said quietly.

“It's all right.” He then said to Magda, “I've never met anybody like you before.”

“And what is it that makes me so special, may I ask?”

“Mama,” Katya stood and resumed her activities. “That's enough.”

Your eyes and your illnesses, Jeffrey thought. They don't match. “I haven't decided.”

“I see. And will you tell me when you do?”

If I'm still around, and feel like committing hari-kari with our relationship. “I don't know.”

Magda seemed pleased with the response. She turned toward the kitchen. “Why don't you show your young man my workshop.”

“He's not interested in your ceramics, Mama.”

That stung him. “Why don't you have the courtesy to ask me before you say what I do and don't like?”

Both their reactions surprised him. Katya immediately turned sheepishly apologetic; her mother clearly approved. Magda repeated calmly, “Show him the workshop, daughter.”

With the motion of a little girl, Katya gestured for him to join her in the kitchen. Mystified, Jeffrey stood and walked over, and was surprised to see that the house did not end with the kitchen as he supposed. Through the window of the back door he saw a glass-walled addition, one originally intended as a greenhouse.

“That atelier is why I chose this house,” Magda said from the front room.

Katya led him forward and opened the door but refused to meet his eyes. Jeffrey stepped into an artist's atelier. Shelves lined both side walls and contained an immense variety of ceramic shapes. Very few of them were exactly the same. All wore the bone-white coloring of once-fired clay. Beneath the shelves stretched thick wooden slabs, standing on legs about waist-high—tables set either for standing or sitting on a stool. A number of flexible lights stood at varying degrees,
and beneath them rested paints, jars, pallets, rags, cans, magnifying glasses, several unfinished works, and some of the thinnest brushes Jeffrey had ever seen.

He bent over one work, a double handled loving cup. It stood perhaps ten inches high, and had a delicate peaked cap set to one side. The cup's base was formed like the foundations of a Doric column and was gilded a shimmering gold. The cup's background began as a delicate cream coloring at the bottom and rose to deep sky-blue. At the center-point of the transition, a gathering of clouds was back-lit by a sun whose light burst forth in a radiant circle. Set in the center of the clouds was a lamb bleeding from a wound in its side.

“You may pick it up if you like.” Jeffrey turned to find Magda leaning heavily against the doorjamb. Her expression was lacking all the pain he had come to think of as permanent. “It is all right. Just use the handles.”

“You did this?”

She nodded and said simply, “It is my life. This and my daughter and my faith. It is all I have.” She smiled for the very first time, a bare flickering that did not register below her eyes. “Sometimes it is almost enough.”

Jeffrey examined the cup more closely. “This is fantastic.”

“Thank you, young man.” She searched his face with a gaze that bit deep. “This is to be your first visit to the East?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps when you return you'll understand better.” She thought it over a moment, gave a decisive nod. “Perhaps.”

They sat across from each other on the train ride back to London, a linoleum-topped table between them. Jeffrey watched the final remnants of a glorious cloud-flecked sunset beyond the train window and thought about what Magda had said.

At last he turned to Katya. “You've never told me anything about your father.”

“That's because I don't remember a lot about him. He left home when I was seven.”

“I'm sorry.” Subdued, he still did not want to let the moment of rare candor go. “Was the divorce tough on you?”

Her eyes remained fastened on the train window. “I didn't say they were divorced, Jeffrey. I said he left. And yes, it was hard.”

“You mean he just walked out on you?”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Katya asked the window.

“Sure, we can. Only I really would like to know more about your past.”

She faced him then, her gaze steady, the distance between them vast. “Why?”

What came to mind surprised even him. “Because I want to share the hurt with you, Katya. Not just the good times.”

The look of utter defenselessness that had pulled him close their very first night returned, and he yearned for something stronger between them, something that would allow him to say what he felt and feel what he dreamed.

Katya said, “My father was an American soldier in Germany after the war. A private. He was in the Occupying Forces. Germany was split up into different zones, each one with a different military government.”

“I knew that.”

“My mother and her older sister were raised in Poland, but wound up in Germany at the end of the war.” She gave him a helpless look. “This is a very difficult story, Jeffrey. And complicated. I'm not sure I can tell it.”

“Try,” he urged.

She was silent for a moment, then said, “My grandmother was Polish and her husband was German. They lived in a village in Upper Silesia, not far from the German border. My grandfather became active in anti-Nazi activities. Towards the end of the war he was caught and shot. My grandmother feared that the family would be arrested, so she sent my
mother and her sister to my grandfather's family. They lived in a town in Germany about a hundred and fifty miles away. I am sure they expected to be re-united soon, but it never happened.