The Last Girl (13 page)

She folded the washing neatly, dividing it into piles. Misha sat by the window, in the easy chair.

‘I'll help,' he said.

She looked at his large, soiled hands and laughed. ‘You want me to have to do them all again?'

He looked at his hands helplessly. As if they had betrayed him.

‘Where did you meet this English man?' she asked to distract him.

‘Through Anton. There are all types of jobs you can do there. Labouring. Thousands of jobs on building sites, he says. They haven't got enough people to do the work.'

Svetlana watched her son as she folded the washing, tying each lot neatly in brown wrapping paper. His face was animated and she saw a look she had not seen in his eyes since he had been too young to understand. Hope. Her heart contracted. Work. Dreams. Just not Mindaugas, she thought. Not back to that.

After delivering the washing, she walked up towards the last remaining part of the old city wall, the Gates of Dawn. There, on a bridge spanning the narrow lane, the Virgin Mother held court. The street was busy. Pensioners manned stalls selling trinkets. Crosses and beads, amber icons; photographs of the Pope stood at the open window above, on his visit in 1993. Svetlana climbed the stairs to the upper room. The air was heavy with incense. The room was crowded. Her ears were assaulted by the babble of excited prayers. Prayers in Polish. In Lithuanian. Latvian. Russian. Byelorussian. She found a space for herself, close to the window. Getting down to her knees she lifted her eyes to the flickering candles, the thick, curling plumes of incense. On the wall was the icon. Maria the Mother of God. The Queen of Heaven. The Black Madonna.

The Virgin's black skin shone. Her golden gown glittered in the light of the candles and the late afternoon sun, which reached over the tops of the city's rooftops and spires and filtered in through the window. Maria's hands were folded across her chest and she inclined her head as if to listen to the prayers of those who came to kneel before her. Soviet pensioners. Farmers' wives, smelling of chickens and garlic and sweat.

Svetlana knelt before her, silent, no prayer on her lips. She could no longer remember them. Once she had known them. She had delighted in them. But she did not want to go back to where they lay, deep in the shadowy corners of her mind. Better this silence. Wordless supplication.

‘Find a way,' she managed to say, finally, when her knees had started to hurt. ‘Another way. Not Mindaugas. Please. For Misha's sake.'

And here there was no shame in crying, for all the women cried, their wrinkled faces wrapped tight in black scarves. The men too. Silent tears slipped from their rheumy eyes.

On the occasions Svetlana had delivered Daumantas' washing to him, she had handed it through the door, staying only long enough to receive her money. With the bag and the papers, she felt she would perhaps get beyond that door. She imagined so, anyway, as she dressed.

She was nervous. She did not want to confess to having watched him get drunk. Watched him closely enough to notice the bag he had left. In the end, with the washed clothes blowing in the sharp gusts that swirled around the courtyard, she tucked the package beneath her arm and left.

In the ghetto she stopped at a bar to have a drink. She drank slowly, making it last. Pumpetiene had called earlier with clothes and given her ten Litas, up front, to keep her going. Five had gone immediately on food; a quarter loaf of coarse dark bread and a little milk, a handful of potatoes and a small paper bag of flour. That would not last long, she had to be careful. Sipping the beer, she imagined conversations with Daumantas. Half an hour later she bought another small beer. She clutched the blue plastic bag close to her, afraid to lose it.

In the toilet of the café there was no mirror. The dirty hole in the floor stank. Svetlana walked down to the Three Friends. The waiters, knowing her, frowned. In the toilets she leaned close to the mirror and examined her face. Fine wrinkles spread from her eyes and worked around her cheeks. The bruise had almost disappeared, little more than a faint darkness beneath her eye. She applied the cheap lipstick she had bought at the market, working carefully, trying to calm the shaking of her hand. She examined the job. A slight sweat had formed in the thin hair above her lip, threatening to ruin the sharp edge she had managed to achieve. She smiled at herself; it was a tight, nervous smile, more a grimace.

Hello, she said.

She straightened the dress. It was the black-and-white dress decorated with sequins that Pumpetiene had given her. He had commented on it. The sequins ran across and beneath her breasts, accentuating them. She smoothed the glittering slivers over her breasts.

Nice dress, he had said.

I found this bag.

The dark roots of her hair were showing. Her hair grew faster than she could earn money for dye. She scrunched it, slightly, to hide the unsightly, dirty roots.

I think you lost this bag.

The door opened and a uniformed girl came in, a waitress. She looked at Svetlana, stony faced, keeping the door open behind her.

‘What are you doing?' she asked sharply, in Lithuanian.

‘Pissing,' Svetlana said in Russian.

‘Piss somewhere else.'

Svetlana pushed past, deliberately catching the girl's shapely shoulder, knocking her back against the door. The girl's pretty face creased with anger.

‘Whore.'

Walking across Ghetto Square and into the narrow lanes, Svetlana paused to gaze into the window of a new boutique. The clasps on the Gucci bags sparkled under the brilliant display lights. Leather Italian shoes shone like mirrors. Neat, petite price tags dangled like decorations. She drew the plastic bag close to her body, cradling it, like a baby. Passing the new café on Zydu Street, she emerged into the car park, shrouded already in early evening gloom. Pigeons had settled on the branches of the trees, cooing softly.

Entering Daumantas' block, she climbed the stairs slowly to his floor. At each landing she paused, reworking her dialogue. Outside Daumantas' apartment she breathed in deeply, held her breath for a moment then pressed the bell.

Hello.

I found this; I think it is yours. You left it in the café…

Nice dress.

She pressed the bell again.

I think this is your bag. I found it. I was drinking in the café…

The light in the stairwell clicked off, leaving her in sudden darkness. She groped about the wall to find the switch. She pressed the bell a third time, her heart sinking, knowing that if he had been in, he would have opened the door by now. Yet she felt she could stand there for the whole evening, pressing the bell, simply for the slight feeling of hope each press gave her.

A shoe scuffed on the stairs behind her. She turned, but it was not him. An old woman appeared, face stern, hair caught up in a net. As she approached, the time ran out and the stairs were plunged once more into darkness. Svetlana hesitated a moment, then hit the switch.

‘You won't find him,' the old woman said. ‘He's out.'

‘Will he be back soon?'

The woman shrugged and arched her pencilled eyebrows, ironically. ‘God only knows. I told him he shouldn't be going out, the state he was in. He listens? I told him it's his fault if he drops down dead.' She shook her head and sucked her teeth. ‘Nah, a right carry-on.'

‘What is wrong with him?'

The old woman stood still, some steps below her. She lifted an imaginary bottle to her lips and gulped it back. ‘Just about drank enough to kill him,' she added. ‘What a fuss he caused and then we all thought he'd gone and done himself in at last. Didn't appear the whole day. Grey as anything this morning, when I saw him. I went to get him a few things from the market.' She stared at the sequins, glistening across Svetlana's breasts. ‘What did you want him for?'

Svetlana hesitated. She saw the beady old eyes moving from her glistening breasts to the parcel under her arm. She saw her take in the dark roots in her hair, the cheap lipstick, the wrinkles.

‘Could you tell him I called,' she said at last.

The old woman clicked her tongue. ‘I'm not chasing around after him,' she said.

Then, ‘What's your name?'

‘Svetlana.'

‘And you have a message you want passing on?' Grigalaviciene's eyes gleamed.

‘No, just Svetlana called.'

‘Phuhh!' Grigalaviciene exclaimed angrily. ‘I'm not running messages for him. Enough that I have to go looking after him, like I do.' Seeing that she would get no more from Svetlana, she turned and stalked back down the stairs. Svetlana followed. She saw the old woman's door close as she passed, then creak open, a crack, as she descended.

The wind had cleared away the clouds. The moon clung to the roof-tiles. The pigeons were quiet. Svetlana stood beneath the trees staring up at the darkened windows of Daumantas' apartment. She could leave the bag, of course, leave it with the old woman, leave it by the door for Daumantas to find. She hugged the papers to her.

One thousand dollars. The price of a clutch of leather handbags and Italian shoes. The price of work, of freedom.

Svetlana stumbled through the nocturnal ghetto streets, clutching the parcel to her. She placed one foot in front of the other with carefully thoughtless deliberation. Letting them find their own way. Not thinking, yet knowing where they were headed. Where there were no streetlights the narrow, winding lanes were sunk in pitch darkness. A car passed, slowed, then moved on. She hugged the bag tighter. Clasping it to her chest, feeling its papery warmth. She imagined Daumantas bent over the typewriter, illumined by a single reading lamp, the click of her heels echoing the rhythm of his fingertips.

On the brow of the hill was the train station, busy with evening traffic. Taxis and trolley buses. Men in groups. Svetlana stood on the corner. She shivered. The wind was cool and she wore only the sequinned dress. She could have turned then and made her way back to Stepono. But Misha would be there, silent, helpful, smeared with the dust of his labour.

She walked down to a small bar on Kauno Street. She paused again outside the door. The windows had steamed up. She could hear the music, the jangle of laughter. Just calling in, she said to herself. Nothing more, she encouraged herself. Nothing more. Her hand shook as she pushed open the door.

The bar was busy. Young girls glittered under the red lights' glare. At the bar was the face she recognised. The face she knew she would see there. She walked across confidently, allowing the bag to drop from in front of her. Letting the red lights catch the sequins across her breasts and cascade off, dazzling. Steeled to the glances, territorial and predatory. She caught his elbow.

‘Mindaugas.'

The man turned, hearing his name. For a split second he paused, then grinned. ‘Svyeta!' And gave her a kiss. The gold rings shone on his fleshy fingers. The cuffs of a dark shirt protruded from the sleeves of his jacket far enough to display his jewelled cufflinks. His face was thicker, rounder than it had been last time she saw him. His hair a little thinner. She saw his eyes appraising her. Noticing the yellow shadow beneath her eye. The thin, meandering creases, pushing down towards her cheeks. The roots of her hair. Seeing too her body, as she eased herself onto a stool, still shapely. He pushed a glass in her direction and poured a drink.

‘Nice dress,' he said. She nodded and smiled.

He clicked her glass with his own and raised it. She raised hers and drank.

‘It's good to see you again,' Mindaugas said. He patted her thigh with one of his fleshy hands. ‘It's been a long time.'

‘Yes,' Svetlana said. ‘It's been a while.' ‘Are you… ?' Mindaugas asked.

She shook her head quickly. ‘No,' she said. ‘No, I just dropped by to say hello.'

‘Fine, good,' Mindaugas said. He smiled again. ‘Good.'

She sat with him, watching the girls, skirts riding high up their thighs, taking a break. These girls were professionals, with tough smiles and bright make-up. Their laughter pierced the rhythmic thump of the dance music.

‘Look,' she said, nudging Mindaugas' elbow as a young girl pushed into the bar. ‘She can't even be sixteen.'

‘Ruta?' Mindaugas said, sipping his vodka. ‘Thirteen, or so.'

Svetlana shook her head. ‘Not one of yours?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Don't you go worrying about that one, she'd cut your throat if you looked at her the wrong way. Feisty little bitch. She's been on the game since she was ten.'

‘Whose girl is she?'

‘Viktor's.'

‘Bastard.'

‘There's worse. Some American moved in a couple of months ago. Thinks he can do what he wants. I'm telling you, things are going to get a bit rough soon.'

Svetlana watched the girl as she strode over to the bar, high heels clicking on the tiles. She ordered a drink and remained standing, on her own, not glancing around. Her face was tightly professional. A working girl. Hiding her fear in aggression.

Feeling her heart contract, Svetlana looked away. The memories bubbled up. Thirteen. Preferring loneliness to the sharp bitterness of life at home, she had escaped from her mother. Emotions curdled in their apartment, where loss hung as heavily on the air as had the aromatic smoke of her father's cigarettes. She had a sudden vision of men approaching her, an open window and fear in the pit of her stomach.

Mindaugas finished his vodka. He wiped his lips, carefully, on a neat, white handkerchief. ‘Ivan's back, I hear.'

‘You heard?'

‘Kasimov hired him on some job.'

Svetlana shrugged. She picked up the bag from the counter. ‘I have to be going.'

‘Good seeing you, Svyeta.' Mindaugas smiled. He held her arm as she slipped down off the stool.

‘If you should need… There is work.' Svetlana shook her head. She forced a smile.

The night was cool. She leant back against the wall and it washed over her. Pounding, rolling waves, drowning her.