The Last Girl (14 page)

She gasped for breath. Her sob was choked off by nausea. She bent over and vomited.

When she reached Stepono, the building was in darkness. The thin light of a candle flickered in a neighbour's dirty window. Her washing flapped, glimmering ghostly white. She gathered it into her arms and buried her face into the fresh clean shirts, savouring the smell for a moment.

The air in the room was fetid. Nikolai was asleep in his clothes in the corner. She bent over him and kissed the stubble on his fragile skull. Finding a thin sheet she pulled it over him. She sat on the edge of the bed, laying the bag beside her.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, the sheet wrapped tight in her small, white fist. There was whispering. Low, urgent voices. The wind whistled through the treetops. From somewhere, out in the darkness, she heard the sound of a dog howling. A fearful chill ran down her spine. She drew the sheet up to her lips. There were footsteps, the sound of bare feet slapping on the cold, wooden floorboards. And then a thump on the door. The sound echoed through the quiet house. Dying away slowly in the furthest, darkest corners. The feet were still. The whispering staunched.

The fist pounded on the door again, steady in its furious insistence. A man called, his voice muffled. Open the door. Voices were whispering in her parents' room. Get dressed, her father said. She could hear her mother whispering, whispering. Get dressed, said her father again. His voice shaking, but loud, determined. The apartment rang to the sound of the pounding fists. She covered her ears. Men were calling. Angry orders. Open the door. Open the door.

Svetlana woke. The room was quiet. Nikolai was sleeping in the corner, tucked in the thin sheet. Beside her lay Ivan. She wiped the droplet of perspiration from her forehead. Waited for her pulse to slow. She eased herself out of bed slowly. Quietly she walked across to the door and opened it. The courtyard was illuminated faintly by moonlight. She leaned against the doorframe and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply the raw, scorching smoke.

*

Fine, her father said, moving down the corridor to the door. They moved into the apartment quickly, pushing him before them. She heard their boots on the floorboards. A grunt as her father tried to protest. A small cry from her mother. Somebody said her father's name. Yes, he said, that's me. Again the sound of scuffling. It's fine, it's fine, her father said, breathless, scared, I'm not fighting. Svetlana curled into her bed. Her heart thudded. She pulled the covers over her head, hiding in the darkness.

The books, she heard a voice demand. We know that you have samizdat literature. The papers, get them out.

Give them, show them. Her mother's voice was tight with fear.

The darkness was hot, airless. She hugged her legs tight against her chest. Pressed her forehead against her sharp knees. She whispered the prayer her father had taught her. Over and over she said the words.

For God's sake, just give them the books, it's what they want. Her mother's voice was faint as though she was in the apartment below. Her father said nothing.

Beneath the sheets she whispered her prayers. Their secret. If she told anybody he had been teaching her the prayers he would be in trouble, he had said to her. She did not tell, it was their secret.

Her mother was crying. Svetlana waited until the echo of the boots had faded, the voices gone. Peeling back the sheet she peered out into the still darkness. She slipped out of the bed and stood in the doorway. Her mother was on the bed, a dressing gown pulled with careless haste around her. Her face was pressed into the sheets. Her body heaved as the sobs tore her. The apartment door was closed. Her father's suitcase was beside the bed, ciothes falling from it. Her mother sobbed. Her father was gone. His shoes had gone but his umbrella was still there, by the door. And his scarf hung on the coat hook. But he was gone. She looked at her mother sobbing on the bed. A sharp pain cut her heart. She felt bile rising in her throat. Her small fists tightened. A cry escaped her. The squawk of a frightened, angry crow. She flew across the room and lashed at her mother with her small clenched fists. Her mother looked up, startled.

Svetlana flicked the butt of the cigarette out into the court­yard. The night was quiet. A car drove slowly down Pylimo, the soft snarl growing then fading away.

Ivan was whistling. Svetlana watched him potter cheerfully around the room. He brought a cup of coffee and a pair of scissors over to the bed.

‘Clip my hair round the back.'

Slowly Svetlana sat up, attempting to unglue her eyes. She took a large gulp of the bitter coffee and took the scissors from him.

‘Wait,' she said. ‘I can't open my eyes.'

‘You'd better be straight.'

He sat on the edge of the bed, an old towel wrapped around his shoulders. Carefully she clipped an inch of hair, straight, across the back of his neck. He moved his head from side to side as she cut, making her job difficult. The blades of the scissors glinted in the sunshine falling through the window. She slid the blunt edge across the skin of the back of his neck. Each time footsteps clattered past the window, he bent forward to catch a glimpse.

‘You expecting someone?'

Ivan did not answer. He lit a cigarette. Holding up a small mirror he directed which parts of his hair she should be cutting.

Testily he said, ‘Shorter round the ears, I look like a tramp.'

She hardly dared interpret his good mood as meaning he had picked up some girl, had found somebody who might engross his interest and keep him away for a longer stretch of time. She noticed she had the scissors open wide, testing their sharp edge against her thumb. His throat was pink and freshly shaved.

‘Come on, get on with it,' Ivan snapped. ‘I haven't got all day.'

When he left, she got up. The cupboards were empty. She sat on the floor holding her head in cupped hands. The vodka bottle was empty.

Pulling the tin tub from the comer she laid it on the rug. The bucket under the tap was almost full; she hoisted it onto the stove and lit it. While the water was warming, she pulled washing from the pile and dumped it into the tub. Pouring the warm water onto the clothes, she began to pound them. The tendons in her arms felt as if they had been ripped. She washed slowly, wearily. The blue plastic bag lay on the end of the bed and she could see it from where she knelt, over the tub. She thought of Misha. Of the one thousand dollars and of the hundred he had carefully managed to save.

When the washing had dried, she wrapped it carefully in paper and tied it with a piece of string. Putting it under her arm she walked down the road towards the old ghetto. She was hungry and felt faint by the time she got to the apartment block where Pumpetiene lived. Sitting on the lower steps, in the darkness of the stairwell, she rested her head against the wall.

‘My goodness, you look terrible,' Pumpetiene said. She opened her door wide and grasped Svetlana to prevent her from falling. Taking her beneath the arm, she helped her into the apartment.

‘What has happened to you? Have you eaten? You've not been drinking, have you? You're not drunk?'

The thought held Pumpetiene a moment and they stopped in the darkness of the hallway. Pumpetiene sniffed her.

‘No,' she said. ‘You're just tired. Come on in.'

She led Svetlana through to the living room and settled her on the neat settee. Svetlana murmured softly, but found she was not able to say anything. The blood seemed to have withdrawn from her face and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her lips were grey. Pumpetiene put the parcel of washing on the table and disappeared into the kitchen.

A key clicked in the door lock and it opened. A man cleared his throat in the hallway. A few moments later his head appeared in the living room. Seeing her, his pale blue eyes widened. He gasped and was about to say something, but disappeared instead. Svetlana heard Pumpetiene greet her husband in the kitchen. Her voice was timid and edged with fear.

‘What is she doing here?' His voice was an angry whisper.

Pumpetiene answered him, her voice low and urgent.

‘She's a whore,' he said. ‘I'm not having a whore sitting on my sofa.'

Again Svetlana heard the sound of Pumpetiene' s voice, twittering like a frightened bird.

‘Get that whore out of my chair.' Her husband's voice rose so that it was perfectly audible in the neat living room. Svetlana was already standing when Pumpetiene returned. Pumpetiene's small face was wrinkled with embarrassment. She looped her arm under Svetlana's and helped her back through the dark hallway in silence. As she pushed her through the door, she grabbed Svetlana's hand and pressed a twenty-Litas note into it.

Pumpetiene had closed the door before Svetlana could protest. She rested her head against the wooden door. Through it she could hear Pumpetiene's voice.

‘She's gone,' she said. ‘Little whore,' her voice pleaded nervously. Her husband grunted. Svetlana clutched the money tightly in her hand.

‘Ah, there you are,' Ivan said, seeing Svetlana in the doorway. ‘What's there to eat? I'm starving!'

He was slouched on the bed watching TV. Svetlana shrugged. Her faint spell had passed but she felt weary. She bent over the small cupboard and gathered the last of the potatoes, sprouting in the dark corners.

In the courtyard she peeled the potatoes, letting the wrinkled skins drop into the muddy grass. She sliced them and fried them in an old pan on the stove.

‘Smells good,' Ivan said, not taking his eyes from the blurred picture on the black-and-white screen.

The door opened behind Svetlana as she stirred the potatoes in the spitting fat. Misha squeezed in, his face dirty and tired. Svetlana hugged him.

‘Trust him to turn up just in time,' Ivan moaned. ‘There's enough,' Svetlana said quietly.

‘Don't worry, you old bastard,' Misha said. ‘Nobody's going to be taking the food from your mouth. I've eaten.'

He put his arm around his mother's shoulders.

‘There's enough for everyone,' she insisted. ‘We can all eat.'

‘There's never enough for that greedy bastard,' Misha said bitterly.

Ivan rose from the bed, angry. ‘You watch your lip.' ‘Misha,' Svetlana pleaded.

Misha pulled off his jacket and hung it on a nail by the door. He said no more. Walking across to his brother he ruffled his hair. Nikolai smiled. Svetlana heaped the potatoes onto plates. Ivan sighed heartily. Taking the plate he fell upon the fried potatoes greedily.

‘Where's the salt?' he complained, his mouth full.

‘Mama, I've eaten.'

Misha pushed the plate away.

‘Take it, don't be silly,' Svetlana insisted. ‘You've been working hard. You need the food.'

‘Oi, oi!' Ivan complained. ‘How can I eat these fucking potatoes without any salt on them?'

‘So don't eat them,' Misha said, turning on him.

Ivan eyed him, considering. He forked the potatoes into his mouth and glared at his stepson.

‘You'd better watch how you talk to me. You should learn a little respect.'

‘I've learned respect, but not for lazy bastards like you.'

Ivan leapt up, furious. Veins stood out on his neck. Misha jumped up too, his blue eyes blazing, unafraid.

‘Watch your tongue!' Ivan shouted, his fists rising to strike, his face pushed close to the youth's. He shook with rage. Spittle flecked his unshaven chin and sweat jumped out on his forehead. Misha glared. He stood inches taller than Ivan. His skin, though dirty, was healthy and his arms were thick with muscles.

Svetlana moved between the two. ‘Stop,' she pleaded.

Misha moved away. He pulled his jacket from the nail and slipped it on. From the corner, Nikolai watched quietly. Svetlana grabbed Misha's arm.

‘It's fine, Mama,' he said. ‘I'm going for a walk.'

He glanced back at Ivan, his lip curling with disgust. Stepping into the courtyard he spat loudly. Ivan collapsed onto the bed. He drew a cigarette from a crumpled pack. His hands shook as he lit it. He waited until Misha's shadow had passed the window before turning on Svetlana.

‘You see how you bring them up! Where's the respect?' He threw the remaining potatoes aside. ‘I can't eat these, they're disgusting.'

Svetlana picked up the plate. ‘Why do you have to be such a bastard?'

Ivan looked up, incredulous. ‘Me? What did I do?' He exhaled wispy clouds of cigarette smoke.

‘Why do you hate him so much?'

‘It isn't me. He hates me. And why? Because you're always complaining, that's why.'

Ivan stared at the fuzzy images on the television screen. He smoked the cigarette with quick nervous puffs. Stubbing the cigarette out, he lit another immediately and smoked that slowly. Svetlana watched him for a few moments. His shirt was wrinkled and dirty. It was unbuttoned, displaying the thick hair on his chest. His hair was greasy, making it look darker than it actually was.

Rubbing his face he shifted on the bed, glancing at the clock on the wall. Svetlana realised he was waiting for something. She rinsed the plates in a small pan of cold water in the sink.

At six o'clock there was a knock at the door. Ivan sat up. Jonas stood in the courtyard, looking sour and beaten. He slouched past Svetlana without a word and settled heavily in the chair.

‘Well?' Ivan said, coughing.

Jonas's face was red and puffy. He gazed dismally out through the small window into the street. Wind blew in through the broken panes, fluttering the plastic bags Svetlana had used to cover them.

‘Well what?' he said evasively. ‘Did you go to Zirmunai or not?'

‘Of course I went,' Jonas said shortly.

‘So?'

‘So what?'

Ivan jumped up from the bed irritated. He grabbed Jonas and clouted him around the head.

‘Don't mess me around, you little prick!' he yelled. The exertion caused him to cough violently. Jonas shrank further back into the chair. ‘Did you see the guy or not?' Ivan said once he had recovered from his coughing. ‘I give you fifty dollars of Kasimov's money and you can't do the simplest of jobs!'