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Authors: Helen Harris

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BOOK: The Steppes of Paris
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The restaurant was Lebanese. The owners, eager to woo their new clientele, lavished them with dozens of small dishes to sample, the lunch became extended and their conversation franker than Edward had anticipated.

Henry asked him if he had any friends in Paris.

Edward shook his head. In a moment’s honesty which he immediately regretted, he admitted, “That side of things does look a bit bleak at the moment.”

Henry looked thoughtfully at the bread basket. “It’s a strange business, I know, setting yourself up somewhere when you know you’re just passing through.”

Before Edward could even wonder what was an appropriate reply, which neither absolutely agreed with nor absolutely refuted Henry’s assumption, Henry pushed a dish of
hummous
towards him. “Here, make some inroads into this. You’re young enough not to need to worry about cholesterol.”

 

He supposed, with hindsight, that he had thought it was a bit too good to be true not to have heard anything out of the Iskarov family for the first three or four weeks he lived in their flat. Certainly, when they did make contact, he was conscious that he had been waiting for it, “braced for it” was the term.

One evening, into the semi-permanent silence of his living-room, the telephone rang. He was so little expecting it that he actually jumped, a reaction which disgusted him because in all his previous existences the telephone had always rung for him with healthy frequency. Expecting that it could only be Henry, or perhaps a call from England, he answered in English, “Hello?”


Allo?
Allo?
Mister Wenwright?” came Mademoiselle Iskarov’s flustered voice.

“Ah,” he said awkwardly.
“Bonsoir.”
Did she always sound, he wondered, as though things were falling in chaos about her ears? Her fluster was infectious.

“Bonsoir,”
she replied, he felt just a trifle stiffly and sorely, as though she had interpreted his formality as a rebuff. “I hope I’m not ringing at a bad time?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” And then, completely unnecessarily, he found himself adding, “I’ve been out quite a bit. I hope you haven’t been trying?”

“No, no, I haven’t. In fact, I did mean to ring you before, but I’ve been so busy. I wanted to ask how you were getting on. Is everything all right in the flat?”

‘No,’ Edward retorted to himself. ‘No, it isn’t. I’ve set up a Buddhist temple here, you see, and there have been a few complaints about the chanting.’

“Yes, fine,” he answered shortly.

There was a pause. “Will you be in later on? Are you busy? I’d like to come round if you’re not in the middle of something.”

Edward controlled his indignation. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Mademoiselle Iskarov said laughingly. “I just want to see that everything’s all right, that’s all; that you have everything you need. I would have come before only I’ve been utterly snowed under. I’ve got a second set of keys for you, in case you need them, and some spare bulbs for those old lamps in the living-room. They’re a funny kind; you’ll never find them anywhere.”

While he sketchily cleaned up the living-room, and the remains of more than one day’s dinner from the kitchen, Edward reproached himself for his immediate acquiescence. It went, of course, without saying that Mademoiselle Iskarov was coming to check up on him; the keys and the light bulbs and the salt which she had rather bizarrely mentioned were a transparent pretext. He would put up with it this once, for the sake of harmonious relations, but he was not going to let her make a habit of it.

He was spared the complicated decision of whether or not to do anything to improve on his appearance by the front-door bell ringing a bare five minutes after he had put the phone down. He had expected half an hour or so’s grace, the time it took to walk the distance, but obviously Mademoiselle Iskarov must have come by car or taxi.

She stood on his doorstep, smaller than he remembered her, and rather stylishly swamped by a bulky red fur coat. Almost in the same instant that he admired the effect of the fur, it occurred to him that it really wasn’t quite cold enough for fur and that if she had come by car it was, in any case, ridiculous.

Her arms were loaded with packages. She gasped at him
urgently. “Take them, take them. I’m about to drop the light bulbs,” and as he gingerly extricated the top parcels from her pile, she explained wryly, “I brought a few things I thought you might need.”

He showed her into the living-room and, somehow she was the sort of woman to whom you did that, he helped her a bit self-consciously off with her enormous coat.

“Do sit down,” he said and, he realised afterwards, with something close to curtness, “Or d’you want to look round straight away?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov ignored him. She stood and gazed around the tidied living-room, which now looked as though there were no one living there at all.

“It is funny,” she said, “to see Volodya’s furniture but no Volodya.”

“Sorry?” said Edward.

Mademoiselle Iskarov caressed the back of the armchair Edward had been sitting in. “This was his favourite chair,” she said. She sat down in it and abruptly shut her eyes.

“Would you like some coffee?” Edward offered somewhat helplessly. “And, forgive my asking, but who is Volodya?”

Without opening her eyes, Mademoiselle Iskarov said, “Dyadya Volodya was my favourite uncle. This was his flat. He lived in it after he got divorced from my Aunty Ada, who was my least favourite aunt. In Russian
yad
means poison. When I was little, I used to call her Aunty Yada.” She opened her eyes to ask him, “Can you understand couples like that? One of them the sweetest, nicest, kindest person you could ever hope to meet and the other – a cow.” Without waiting for an answer, which Edward would, in any case, not have been able to give, she closed her eyes and continued, “He was a replacement father for me when I was growing up; he was better than a father. Certainly better than
my
father would have been if he had stayed around.” She stretched out both her arms and laid them palms down along the arms of the chair. “Volodya went to America and he was killed in a car crash. I ask you; survive everything else and then that. It was so stupid, so stupid; how could he have let it happen?”

Her eyes sprang open and, seeing Edward’s fazed expression,
she burst into disconcerting laughter. “What am I doing? I mustn’t give you ghosts.”

She bustled out of the chair and over to the heap of packages which lay tipped on the settee. “Here, look, these are the keys and these are the light bulbs. They don’t click in, you understand; you need to twist them. And I’ve brought you a change of tablecloth. You can’t keep on using that green one all the time; it’ll get disgusting. And this is a lampshade for the bathroom. There isn’t one, is there? Something unfortunate happened to the last one. And this, laugh if you like, is a traditional Russian house-warming gift, rather late, I’m afraid: bread and salt.”

She took the last two bundles from the heap and thrust them at Edward. “Here you are. I wish you health and happiness in your new home.”

“Well, thank you,” said Edward. He looked uncertainly at the two brown paper parcels. “Am I – are we supposed to have it now, or what?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov shrugged. “That’s up to you.” Then she seemed to thaw a little and added, “Though why not? You suggested coffee, didn’t you? We can have a mouthful with coffee.”

She followed Edward into the kitchen. “Well, you keep it cleaner than your predecessor, I’ll say that.”

Edward repeated, with perceptible irritation in his voice, “Do have a look round, if you want to.”

To his surprise, Mademoiselle Iskarov seemed to take offence. “I didn’t come on a tour of inspection, if that’s what you think.” But, almost immediately, her offence seemed to vanish and she asked him, “Please put in a bit more coffee than that. I like it very strong.”

It was embarrassing to realise, not having entertained any guests in the flat before, that he had no sugar, since he himself didn’t take any, and when he opened the fridge to get out the milk, he had to reveal that there was nothing inside it but a quantity of wine and a single piece of distinctly aged-smelling cheese.

Largely to distract attention, he asked Mademoiselle Iskarov, “Would you like something a bit stronger with your coffee? I’ve got some whisky and some liqueur.”

She clapped her hands. “Oh, thank goodness. You are a normal person with normal weaknesses; not a dreadfully proper young English gentleman with no known vices.”

Edward felt provoked to childish annoyance. He was at an undeniable disadvantage, squatting in front of his evil-smelling fridge, and it galled him excessively to look up and see Mademoiselle Iskarov condescendingly laughing at him.

“I don’t know what on earth gave you that idea,” he retorted crossly.

Mademoiselle Iskarov snorted with laughter.

Edward finished making the coffee in silence.

Mademoiselle Iskarov said contritely, “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

“Not in the least,” said Edward, hoping to make it plain through the screen of a foreign language that Mademoiselle Iskarov was of such minimal importance, she would be hard put to offend him.

They went back into the living-room. Following him, bringing her bread and salt, Mademoiselle Iskarov repeated gloomily, “I have offended you, I know I have. I’d forgotten how easily you English people get offended.”

Laughing, Edward said, “Look, you haven’t offended me. But you haven’t answered my question either. Would you like a drink?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov nodded. “We must. Drink and make up.”

“We don’t need to drink and make up,” Edward said. “Would you
like
a drink?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov replied with a wordless beam.

While he was in the kitchen, getting the bottle and glasses, one of which was sticky and needed to be swilled out under the tap, he heard her get up and move around the living-room. When he returned, she was standing with her back to the window surveying the room with a sad expression.

Edward asked, “Does it make you unhappy to see someone else living here?”

“Oh,” she said, “not you, Mister Wenwright. You seem to appreciate the place. Not like that awful American. I think Volodya would have been happy to know you were living here. No, you know, it’s just for me the place is full of his absence.”

Edward nodded, he hoped eloquently. Unable to think of any other response, he passed Mademoiselle Iskarov her coffee and her whisky. He asked, “How do we deal with this bread?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov came out of her reverie. “Of course, it should be black bread,” she said. “Not one of these stupid
baguettes
.” She took the bread from its paper and wrenched off two ragged chunks. Then she delved into the salt package and liberally sprinkled each chunk. She passed the bigger chunk to Edward and proceeded to munch contentedly on her own.

Edward went more slowly. In combination with the ferociously strong coffee, it tasted to him a pretty noxious mixture.

When the bread ceremony was disposed of, they sat and sipped their whisky. Mademoiselle Iskarov asked him about his job and he wanted to reciprocate by asking her about her job but he couldn’t think what questions to put to a Russian teacher. The questions he could think of, nothing to do with her work, seemed perilously indiscreet and intrusive.

Soon enough, an uncomfortable silence settled over them. To break it, Edward determined to overcome his unprofessional hesitation. He started to interview her.

“How long have you lived in France?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov looked astonished. “What do you mean? I’ve always lived here.”

“Always? Were you born here?”

Mademoiselle Iskarov bridled visibly. “Of course I was born here. Do you think I speak with an accent or something?”

“I’d hardly be the one to comment on it if you did,” Edward said conciliatingly. “No, you just seem so Russian; you know, your flat and what you’ve told me of your family and this bread business. I just wondered.”

Mademoiselle Iskarov shrugged and spread her palms helplessly. “Of course I’m Russian. It’s not just something you discard like a pair of stale socks, you know. We keep our traditions, our language.”

“I suppose you’re completely bi-lingual?” Edward asked.

“Of course,” answered Mademoiselle Iskarov. She smiled affectionately at something within her and explained, “Russian
is my mother tongue. French was only my father’s tongue,” and she pulled a comically disparaging face.

“Your father was French?” Edward said. “But you’ve got a Russian name.”

“It’s my mother’s name,” explained Mademoiselle Iskarov. “My father walked out when I was still a baby and my mother changed my name back when she changed hers.”

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Edward said.

“My mother could,” replied Mademoiselle Iskarov. “Why should I be blighted by the name of a criminal?” She laughed, making fun of her own melodrama. “I like this name. If I ever get married, I shall call myself Madame Iskarov Something or Other.”

Edward couldn’t help being secretly startled that she should still openly consider marriage an option. She was definitely well into her thirties although now, sitting in the weak-tea light of the standard lamps, animated and chattering, she could pass for younger. The combination of her job, Mademoiselle Iskarov the Russian teacher, and the alienating fact that she was his landlady had led him to put her in the category of confirmed spinster. She evidently saw herself quite differently.

She lifted her heavy amber necklace and considered the glossy beads thoughtfully under the light. “I suppose you’re thinking I’ve left it a bit late to be talking about marriage?”

“Of course not,” Edward said. “People get married incredibly late nowadays,” and, promptly, both of them burst into embarrassed laughter.

“How old are you?” asked Mademoiselle Iskarov warily.

“Twenty-six,” Edward answered.

Mademoiselle Iskarov clapped her hand to her lips with a little shocked amused exhalation.

“Am I allowed to put the same question to you?” Edward asked.

Mademoiselle Iskarov considered him coyly. “Probably better that than me telling you to guess and you guessing awfully wrong. I’m
thirty-
six. Now tell me I don’t look anything like that old.” She kicked her heels coquettishly and laughed.

“I would have guessed early thirties,” Edward said honestly.

“That much?” Mademoiselle Iskarov exclaimed mock tragically. “I’m heart-broken.” She grew serious. “I don’t believe in the importance of age. My mother had magnificent love affairs till the end of her days. She was fifty-five when she died and she had more broken-hearted admirers at her funeral than most women could have hoped for in their twenties.”

“She sounds amazing,” Edward agreed.

“She was,” Mademoiselle Iskarov said fervently. “She was. And my grandmother, too, before she started to – And my Great-Aunt Elena. I was brought up entirely by Russian women. They made me strong and capable of standing on my own two feet. I think that’s why I find the majority of men somewhat weak and unsatisfactory.”

BOOK: The Steppes of Paris
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