White Gardenia (40 page)

I returned to the flat in Potts Point one evening and found it deserted. I knew that Irina and Vitaly were at the pictures. There was a note on the coffee table from Betty saying that she had gone for a dip in the Domain baths. She’d drawn a map in case I wanted to join her. It was hot that day, a real Sydney heat wave. It was half past seven but the sun was still burning. I kicked off my shoes and opened the doors and windows. I found Ruselina lying on the banana chair on the
balcony, wearing a Chinaman’s straw hat and sunglasses and catching the beginnings of the evening sea breeze. Down on the street I could hear the happy shouts of children playing under a hose.

‘It’s what the Australians call “stinking hot”, isn’t it?’ Ruselina said.

I asked her if she wanted some lemonade.

‘Thank you. A telegram came for you today, Anya,’ she said. ‘I put it on the kitchen table.’

I rushed to the kitchen, wondering who would have sent me a telegram. My heart leaped with excitement when I opened the envelope and saw that it was from Dan Richards, my American friend. The telegram said that he was coming to Sydney the following week and asked me to meet him at the consulate on Tuesday at eleven o’clock.

‘Hey,’ I called, running out to Ruselina, ‘it’s from Dan, my old friend. The one who tried to help us get to America. He’s coming to Sydney next week and wants to see me.’

I couldn’t imagine any surprise more wonderful than seeing Dan again. We had kept up correspondence over the years, mainly Christmas cards but occasionally a letter. He was the father of two children by now.

‘An overseas visitor! How wonderful for you!’ said Ruselina, tilting her hat so she could get a better look at me. ‘Is he bringing his wife and children?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I assume he will be, though the youngest is barely five months old. He must be coming on either a holiday or business.’

I read the message again. I was puzzled about why Dan had sent me a telegram rather than writing a letter and giving me more notice. I hoped that he was bringing Polly and the children. I had never met
his wife but had always been intrigued by her. Dan described her as a lively and strong-minded woman. I knew that she would have to be someone special to have inspired such loyalty in a man.

I was wide awake at five o’clock on the morning I was supposed to meet Dan. I’d slept well but I couldn’t lie in because of the anticipation of seeing him again. I’d already prepared my best summer dress. It was ironed and hanging on the wardrobe door, a cherry-red shift with a matching hat, one of Judith’s creations. The hat was decorated with a trim of gardenias. The dress was simple and flattering, it was the hat that gave it balance and personality. My meeting with Dan would be the first occasion I’d have to wear it. I slipped out of bed without disturbing Irina and went to the kitchen. I made tea and marmalade toast and tiptoed out onto the balcony, careful not to wake Betty when I passed her on the lounge. But there was little chance of that. Betty was a sound sleeper. As soon as she put on her pyjamas and her hair net she was usually out cold until her alarm went off in the morning.

The street was summery green and the harbour was dazzling in the early sunlight. I could hardly believe that in a few hours I would cross paths with Dan Richards again. I closed my eyes and saw him as he had been during those language and culture afternoons in Shanghai. So gallant and dashing, trying to pronounce the Russian words I wrote down for him. I laughed when I thought of his red hair and freckled skin. His charming, boyish smile. There had been a time when I thought I could fall in love with him. That made me smile too and I was glad that I never had. He was a good man, a kind man, but we would not have been suited to each other. Besides the
fact that he was happily married, I was too complicated for him. But I was glad that we had remained good friends. He had been loyal to me and generous. I was lucky to have had his help when I needed it.

A pain pinched my stomach. Another memory came floating up like a piece of wreckage from the depths. It was at odds with the summer breeze and the joy I had been feeling just a second before. Another day, another city, another consulate…
I’m looking for my husband.
Gunfire in the distance. The terror in the eyes of the people crowding the halls.
Please don’t worry. Everything has been chaotic here.
Chinese antiques and books half packed into boxes. A photograph of a man I loved. Dan’s grim mouth.
Anya, is this your husband. Dmitri Lubensky?
A ship waiting in the dock. Its funnel billowing steam.
Good God, Anya!
Dan struggling with my luggage, his arm tucked under my elbow to stop me from stumbling. Papers clutched in my hands. My legs weak with shock.
Trust me, there will be a day when you’ll be glad that man’s name doesn’t belong to you
.

‘Anya.’

The murky river transformed into the blue harbour again.

‘Anya.’

It was Irina standing in the doorway holding out a plate of bacon and eggs.

‘What time is it?’ I glanced over my shoulder at her. Her smile disappeared.

‘Anya,’ Irina asked, her eyes darkening. ‘Why are you crying?’

To my relief the American consulate in Sydney bore no resemblance to the one in Shanghai, save for the American flags in its reception area. Its decor was functional leather and wood. It was businesslike rather than chic and its uniformed guards looked purposeful and serious. It had none of the opulent atmosphere of its counterpart in Shanghai. Dan Richards was waiting for me. He was sitting in a wing-backed armchair with his leg crossed over his knee, reading the
Daily Telegraph
. The paper was folded out full in front of his face but I could tell it was him from the spray of red hair poking out over the edge of it, and his long, thin legs.

I crept up to him and grabbed the top of the paper. ‘You should be reading my paper,’ I said, ‘not the competition’s.’

Dan dropped the newspaper and stared up at me, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Anya!’ he cried, leaping out of his seat. He grabbed me around the shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. He hadn’t changed at all. He was still the same boyish Dan, despite being a father twice over. ‘Anya!’ he shouted again. ‘You’re beautiful!’

The guards and the receptionist squinted at him, not impressed by the commotion he was causing. But Dan was oblivious to them and didn’t change his tone. ‘Come on!’ he said, taking my arm and wrapping it around his. ‘There’s a place a few blocks from here where we can have coffee and a bite to eat.’

The restaurant Dan took me to was called the Hounds. It was exactly the kind of place one would expect diplomats to dine at. It was elegant but comfortable with a scrolled ceiling, solid chairs and dark wood tables. An old smell like leather and
books pervaded it. There was an open fireplace in the dining area that of course was not in use at this time of year. The windows had been thrown open and Dan and I were seated at one overlooking a courtyard of clay pots of dwarfed lemon trees and planters full of overgrown herbs.

The waiter pulled out my chair for me. He handed me the menu with a stiff smile.

Dan watched him walk away and grinned at me. ‘Anya, you’ve stunned him. You are absolutely gorgeous. It makes me look good to be seen with you, and I’m an old married man.’

I was about to ask him where Polly and the children were but the waiter returned too quickly with the coffee pot and I lost my chance.

‘Gosh, looking at this is making me hungry,’ said Dan, glancing at me over the top of his menu. ‘Would you like an early lunch? I heard the roast chicken is very good.’

It was the first time I’d looked directly at him. He was the same jolly Dan but there was something in his expression, a flash in his eyes, that made him seem ill at ease.

The waiter came with his notepad and left with Dan’s order for chicken and mine for mushroom soup. I saw it there again. The troubled expression on Dan’s face. The nervous constriction of his throat. For the first time that day I had a sense of foreboding. I became frightened that something had happened, some disaster had befallen Polly and his children. But surely he would have written to me of that before coming. Perhaps it was just tiredness. The trip from New York to Sydney was a long one.

He took one of the rolls from the basket and began buttering it, glancing up at me now and again
and smiling. ‘I can’t get over how well you look, Anya. I can see why the beauty business suits you. Tell me, what do you do on a typical day at the paper?’

Yes, there was something there. He was Dan but not carefree Dan. Whatever it was that was troubling him would have to wait, I decided, until after the food arrived. There was something important he had to tell me but I did not want the waiter to interrupt us. So I let myself be lulled into friendly chatter and talked with him of day-to-day things. About Sydney and Australians, Diana, Betty’s café, the apartment in Potts Point, and my love for Australian fashion.

It seemed ages before the food arrived. When it did, Dan tucked straight into his meal and appeared no closer to telling me what was on his mind.

‘So how is the soup?’ he asked. ‘Here we are in this hot country eating hot food, it doesn’t seem right, does it? Would you like some chicken?’

‘Dan.’

He glanced up at me, still smiling.

‘Where is Polly?’

‘She’s in America. With the children. They’re all well,’ he said, carving a slice of chicken and putting it on my side plate. ‘Elizabeth is three, can you believe it?’

‘Are you here on business then?’ I asked. My voice broke.

Dan stared at me. It was an honest, compassionate look. The expression of a man who does not wish to deceive his friend. He put down his fork. His eyes clouded over. The change in mood between us was so sudden that I was shocked. I could feel my face blanch. The blood hummed in my
ears. Whatever it was he had to tell me, it was lying there covered between us, like a body in a mortuary waiting for identification. Dan drew a breath. I braced myself.

‘Anya,’ he began, ‘I didn’t come here for business. I came because I have something important to tell you.’

There was no stopping what was coming now. I had unleashed it. Perhaps it needn’t have ever come out if I hadn’t asked. It was bad news. I could tell by the strange tone of Dan’s voice. It was a tone I had never heard him use before. We were going to talk of something distressing, something forbidden. But what on earth could it be?

‘Anya, I haven’t slept this past week,’ he said. ‘I have been tormented by what is the right thing to do by you. I know from every piece of correspondence you have sent me, and from seeing you now, that you are happy in your new life and your adopted country. I tried to write at least ten letters and ended up destroying them all. What I have to convey to you doesn’t belong in a letter. So I have come myself, believing in your fortitude and comforted by the fact that you are surrounded by true friends.’

His speech was so wordy it almost made me laugh with nerves. ‘What is it?’ My voice was calm, but inside I was screaming with panic.

Dan reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. ‘I have news of your husband. Dmitri Lubensky.’

White spots danced before my eyes. I shrank back into my chair. A hot breeze from the courtyard washed over me. I smelled the sage and the mint. Dmitri. My husband. Dmitri Lubensky. I repeated his name to myself. He was connected to my past; I could
not associate him with anything in the present. His name was the smell of brandy and the sound of trombones and drums from a brass band at the Moscow-Shanghai. He was tuxedos and velvets and oriental carpets. He was not part of the Sydney restaurant where I sat opposite Dan. He was not in the heat or the blueness of the Australian sky. Pictures flashed across my mind in fractured pieces: a bowl of shark’s fin soup, the rumba on a crowded dance floor, a room full of wedding roses. I took a sip of water, barely able to hold the glass steady in my trembling hand. ‘Dmitri?’ was all I could manage to get out.

Dan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow. ‘I have no idea how to tell you this…’

Dan was speaking to me through a fog. I could barely hear him. Dmitri’s name had been like a blow. I had not been prepared for it.
We were going to have coffee and cake. Dan had come on business. We were going to spend the morning laughing and talking about our lives.
Everything seemed to be spinning around. Dan and I were not the same people we had been ten minutes ago. There was a taste like metal in the back of my throat.

‘Anya, a little over a week ago I was sitting at the breakfast table when Polly brought in my letters and my newspaper. It was going to be a normal day like any other day, except that I was running late and would have to read the paper at my office. After I dressed I picked the newspaper up from the table to put it in my briefcase. I stopped when I saw the picture on the front cover. I knew the man’s face in an instant. The article said the police were trying to identify him. He’d been shot in some sort of robbery that went wrong and was unconscious in hospital.’

My hands were wet. They were soaking the tablecloth, making patterns like butterflies. Dmitri. Robbery. Hurt. Shot. I tried to picture it but could not.

‘When I saw the photograph my first thought was of you,’ Dan continued. ‘Should I tell you? Everything in my soul told me that I should not. That you had a new and happy life and the way the man had treated you had been nothing short of abominable. Deserting his young wife! How could he have been sure that you would have gotten that next boat? If you had waited just a few hours more you would have been left behind and executed by the Communists.’

Dan sat back in his chair, his brow knotted. He picked up his napkin, refolded it and dropped it into his lap again. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had seen him look angry.

‘But I knew I had a moral duty to the police and the government to come forward and at least identify Dmitri,’ he said. ‘So I called the police sergeant listed in the article. He took down my statement and told me that the priest at the hospital was also keen to speak to anyone who knew the man. I didn’t know what that was about, but I felt obliged to call anyway. I telephoned the hospital and the priest told me that Dmitri was in bad shape, conscious at last but mostly delirious. He’d been shot trying to defend a seventeen-year-old girl. When I heard that it stopped me in my tracks. “And who is Anya?” the priest asked me. “He keeps calling out for Anya.” I told him I would be there on the next flight.’