Love in Revolution (20 page)

I looked down at the food, spread out in front of me, and suddenly it seemed pathetic: there was too little of it – or too much, I wasn’t sure which. I cleared my throat. ‘Don’t you . . . I thought . . . aren’t you . . . ?’

‘Don’t I want it?’ She stood up, wrapping the blanket round herself, and came towards me. She reached out and nudged the jar of honey with her toe. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I want it. I’m not proud. I don’t mind accepting charity.’

‘Skizi, it’s not –’

‘Nice, is it? To be a good, sweet little ministering angel? Nice to be able to raid your larder and give it all away. Wish I could do that.’

I stared at her. I forced myself to say, ‘It’s not charity.’

‘No? What is it then? What do you want in exchange?’

‘I . . . Skizi, I love you, it’s a – a present –’

Her eyes narrowed. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought she was going to cry. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Esteya! Stop saying that. You don’t love me. I make you feel good, that’s all. You like feeling superior, you like playing at being in love, you like it when we –’

‘That’s not fair! I
do
love you –’

‘You don’t know anything about me. How old am I, Esteya? Where was I born? Where are my parents? What –’ her voice cracked – ‘what the
hell
am I doing living here, in this hut?’

I dug my nails into the palms of my hands until all I could feel was the pain. ‘You never said, so I thought – I didn’t want to ask –’

‘Yes, I’ll take your food. I’ll even let you heat water for me to have a bath, and I’ll wash myself with your pink soap and smile at you and pretend to be grateful and afterwards, because I feel sorry for you, I might let you kiss me and undress me and . . . but don’t think it’s because I love you, or even like you particularly. All right? I’ll be nice to you because I’m hungry, and I want to be warm and clean, and . . . but you’re smug and self-satisfied and you make me bloody
sick
 –’

She stopped. She was staring at me, and her own face was appalled.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again nothing had changed.

‘You don’t have to –’ I swallowed. ‘But – why did you . . . Never mind. I’m sorry.’ I turned on my heel and stumbled towards the door. If I could only get out, and out of sight, before I started to cry . . .

‘And take your bloody coal with you.’ Her voice was thin and tired.

I looked over my shoulder, and for a blessed second all I felt was anger. Then, before I could say anything, I saw Skizi’s face thaw and crumple. She gazed at me and blinked, and tears spilt out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

‘Sorry,’ she said, so quietly I hardly heard her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘No. It was stupid. I just . . . I’m sorry.’

I kept looking at her, filled with an odd mixture of anger and pity. I’d never seen Skizi cry; it was like seeing someone else with the same face.

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Please, Esteya, don’t go. I was being stupid. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry . . .’

I stood still and silent. There was nothing I could say.

She came up to me, and leant her head against my shoulder, rubbing her face against my coat. ‘Please, Esteya, I’m sorry. I’m grateful for the food, really I am. Don’t be angry.’ It was so unlike her that I almost pushed her away; but instead I lifted my hand and stroked her hair, very gently.

She raised her head and pressed her lips against mine, suddenly, surprisingly. I put my arms round her and pulled her into a better position. For a moment we kissed properly – and then I felt her start to sob.

I pulled back, staring at her. She glanced up, seeming to meet my gaze, but her eyes were blind, overflowing with water. She bent over, wrapping her arms round her ribcage, and wept. She cried and cried, as if everything in the world was broken.

I had never seen anyone cry like that. It made me think of the way Teddy had cried, on his knees in our hallway, staring at the blue-and-white fragments of his English tea set; but Skizi wept with a kind of abandoned, unselfconscious grief that resonated in my bones and made me feel bruised. I crouched next to her, patting her shoulder awkwardly, saying useless things like, ‘Hush, Skizi, it’s all right, it’s all right . . .’ But she didn’t seem to realise I was there.

After a while the cold got too much. My muscles were aching and prickling, and I couldn’t stay still. In the end I stood up, wincing as the blood flowed back into my legs. Skizi didn’t notice that I’d moved; she was still sobbing, with a hopeless, adult note in her voice, as if she’d go on for ever. I’d never felt so alone in my life.

I wanted to sit down next to her and cry too; but that wouldn’t help. I clenched my back teeth together and walked around her to the food that was still spread out on the tea towel. I picked it up and put it on her shelf. The sausage smelt of grease and garlic, and the cheese smelt of old boots; I despised myself for expecting Skizi to eat them.

I put the soap on the other end of the shelf, and went outside to fill her old metal bucket with water. The well-water was freezing, and my hands hurt so much it was hard to hold the handle. I was glad of the pain, though. It distracted me from Skizi’s sobs.

I took the bucket back inside, built up the fire and put the water on to heat. I dragged the old hip bath out from its corner and put it in front of the hearth. Then I sat down against the wall with my knees up, waiting for the water to boil. After a long time Skizi quietened down, and her sobs turned to sniffs. I poured the water into the hip bath and went outside for another bucketful. When I came back inside Skizi was lying quietly with her eyes closed.

It took a long time for the water to get hot. By the time the second bucketful was boiling, the water in the bath was only just at blood heat, and it took four bucketfuls to fill the bath. But I didn’t mind: I felt empty, content to sit and stare at the fire, adding bits of coal until I could feel the warmth slowly filling the hut.

When I’d finally filled the bath I said softly, ‘Skizi?’

She opened her eyes, and then stood up, undressed and stepped into the bath, resting her hand on my shoulder to steady herself. Her bruises went right down to her waist, and there were more on her legs. She winced a little as she sat down. She rested her chin on her knees, clasping her hands around her shins, taking deep breaths. There was already a faint sheen of grime on the surface of the water.

I unwrapped the soap and gave it to her. She took it and sniffed it, and the corner of her mouth twitched. She raised her eyes to mine, and gave me a watery smile.

I smiled back, feeling a great surge of relief. I didn’t say anything – everything still felt too fragile – but I watched while Skizi washed herself, rubbing the soap into her hair, bending forward to work it into the spaces between her toes with an earnest, concentrated look on her face. Then she handed me the soap and said, ‘Can you do my back?’

I knelt down behind her, and ran my hands gently down her spine. I cupped my hands and poured water on to the nape of her neck, watching the wetness slide down over her vertebrae and her bruises. Anyone else would have thought it was ugly: Skizi’s grimy, bony back, stained blue and purple . . . I ran the soap across her shoulders, and down, making my touch as soft as possible. The warm water made my fingers tingle. Skizi’s skin was smooth – familiar and unfamiliar at the same time – and it made me think of wet clay, as if I was remaking her. I rinsed the dirt away and the shape of her bones shone pale gold in the glow from the fire.

‘Thank you.’

For a strange, dreamy moment I didn’t know if she’d said it to me, or the other way round. I said, ‘Thank you,’ and heard her laugh.

I leant forward and rested my cheek against her shoulder blade, feeling the rhythm of her breathing. I wanted to stay like that for ever.

Finally I felt her sigh, and the buzz of her voice in her skin as she said, ‘Esteya? Did you bring a towel?’

‘Mmmm.’ I got up. The air was cold on my wet cheek. I picked up the towel, and when she stood up I wrapped her up in it, the way Mama used to do with me. She screwed up her face and grinned when I scrubbed her hair. I said, ‘Are you warmer now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m stupid,’ I said, ‘I should’ve brought you some clean clothes.’

‘For God’s sake, Esteya, don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ But she was laughing as she said it.

‘You could have my school uniform –’

‘Shut up,’ she said, and stepped out of the bath. ‘Shut up shut up shut
up
.’

She put her arms round me, so that we were both inside the damp towel, and kissed me.

And it was the same as it always was – my hands recognising her body, knowing her, following the lines of her as if I knew her by heart – but it was different too. There was something new in the way she moved, a kind of need, as if for the first time I really mattered to her. She undressed me, fumbling with my buttons, breathing hard. Her wet hair clung to my cheek and mouth; I could taste soap and roses.

And then she kissed my eyes and my nose and my neck and my collarbone, working her way down my body, until I felt her lips brush my stomach. I put my hands on her hair, pushing my fingers into the tangles, as she went on kissing me.

We stayed there, wrapped in the blankets, for a long time. By the time I rolled over and sat up the fire had almost died. The light had faded, and there was a deeper chill in the air; I realised, with a shock, that it was late afternoon and Mama would be home.

Skizi yawned and stretched. She said, ‘I’m
starving
. Did you bring me anything sweet?’

I stood up, passed her the jar of honey and started to get dressed. When I glanced round she was eating the crystals with her fingers. She looked up.

I said, ‘What – what did happen to your parents?’

‘They got taken away,’ she said, as if she was talking about the weather. ‘By the police. A long time ago. They’re probably dead.’ She sucked one finger, and then scooped more honey out of the jar.

I nodded.

‘We were . . . Back then, there were five families. We all travelled together. But people never liked us.’ She shrugged. ‘There was one day, my dad got drunk in the town and started a fight. That night the police came and burnt our camp and took everyone away.’

‘Except you.’

‘Yes, except me.’ She stared into the bottom of the honey jar, but her eyes were blank, as if she was seeing something else. ‘I ran away. I didn’t want to get caught.’

I moved towards her, but she looked up and flinched before I could touch her. Her eyes were narrow and fierce.

‘I survive,’ she said, almost spitting the words at me. ‘That’s all I want. Nothing else matters, as long as I survive. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure I did.

‘If I need to run, I run. If I need to steal, I steal. Whatever I have to do . . .’ There was a hard, intent look on her face. ‘I don’t care what I do, as long as I can walk out the other side. All right?’

‘Yes, of course. I mean . . . of course. That’s only sensible.’ But I couldn’t help feeling that I was missing something, that we were talking at cross purposes.

She stared at me for a moment longer, and then laughed and looked away. There was silence; I could hear the little moist sounds of her tongue as she licked the last of the honey off her fingernail.

‘I should go home,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Goodbye then,’ I said. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. If only she’d look up, say something or smile . . .

Nothing. I put my hands in the pockets of my coat, gave her a last look and went out into the field. The sky was dark grey, and the cold took my breath away. The smell of snow was in the air. I picked my way across the frozen ruts, moving through a mist of my own breath.

‘Esteya!’

I turned round. Skizi was standing at the corner of the hut, still wrapped only in a blanket, her feet bare.

I paused. ‘Yes?’

She took a few stumbling steps. I could see her shivering. ‘Esteya –’

‘What are you doing out here?’ I said. ‘Get back into the warm.’

‘Tell me you love me,’ she said, rushing the words so it took me a second to register what she’d said.

‘Wh–?’ I stared at her, and then took a deep breath. The air burnt my oesophagus, like acid. ‘All right. I love you.’

‘You mean it?’

‘Yes, of course I – yes, I mean it.’

‘Whatever happens?’

‘Yes, of course, whatev–’

‘No –
think
about it! Really, whatever happens?’ She held my gaze.

I thought about it. I looked past Skizi, at the smoke trickling from the roof of the hut, at the skeleton of the olive tree, at the sky hanging low and heavy above it. I felt so helpless, so small, that I could have cried.

I said, ‘Yes, whatever happens.’

There was silence again. I noticed a fleck of snow spin and settle on my sleeve, and when I looked up I could see the snow beginning in earnest, undulating and folding in on itself like a curtain.