2007 - Two Caravans Page 5

  An evening like this is a gift from God, thinks Marta, as she gives thanks and prepares to celebrate.

  Only Irina is missing. Andriy goes to look for her, and finds her still curled up asleep in the caravan. Her hands are folded together under her chin, and two circles of colour have fallen like rose petals on her cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted. Her orange ribbon has come loose and the stray strands of dark hair are streaming on the pillow. He gazes for a moment. Really, for a Ukrainian girl, she has some quite positive features.

  “Wake up. Dinner’s ready.”

  He has it on the tip of his tongue to say, “Wake up, sweet one.” But why would he want to say a thing like that? Fortunately the words get stuck in his mouth before they can emerge to embarrass him. Irina yawns, stretches and rubs her eyes. She rolls off the bunk, still a bit wobbly from sleep. He takes her hand to help her step down from the caravan, and she rests her weight on him briefly before drawing it away.

  The strawberry-pickers have seated themselves in a circle and are passing round the steaming plates of food: dumplings, rabbit and sausage stew with fried bread, garlic, mushrooms and potatoes. The delicious smell of each dish strikes him like a miracle; his body shivers with readiness; he is incredibly hungry. After Marta has said grace, Vitaly sells everyone a can or more of excellent lager at a special discounted price. At first they all eat in silence, listening to the birdsong, watching the magical shifts of light as the sun slips towards the horizon. After a while, conversations break out in a babble of languages.

  He is sitting next to Irina on a low log, watching her from the corner of his eye. He likes the way she eats, tucking into the food with enthusiasm, only stopping from time to time to flick back her long hair when it slips down over her face.

  He leans and whispers into her ear, “Have you got a boyfriend back home, then?”

  She turns her head, giving him a hard look.

  “Yes I have, of course. He is two metres tall and he is a boxer.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “What is his name?”

  “His name is Attila.”

  She doesn’t look the type to have a boxer boyfriend, but women are notoriously unpredictable, and he has heard that sometimes the most refined types are drawn to the roughest of men. So maybe he stands a chance with her after all.

  To his left, Tomasz is trying a similar approach. He sits up close to Yola on Vitaly’s car seat and murmurs, “Is there someone waiting for you back in Poland, beautiful Yola?”

  “What business is it of yours?” Yola replies briskly.

  “Only that if there is, he is a lucky man.”

  “Not so lucky as you imagine. What do you know about luck?” she snaps. “Better to keep your mouth shut, Mister Poet, unless you know what you’re talking about.”

  On the other side, Emanuel and Chinese Girl Two are each trying to find out where the other comes from. Emanuel discovers that she is not from China, which seems odd, while she discovers only that he is from Africa, which everyone knows already. Then Vitaly presses another can of beer on them and Marta intervenes, chicling him gently for taking advantage of Emanuel, who is too young and has clearly had enough already. Chinese Girl Two starts to giggle uncontrollably, and soon they are all giggling, even Marta.

  Now Tomasz takes up his guitar and starts to sing a terrible rhyming song he has composed himself about a man who sets out to find the woman of his dreams. Yola tells him to shut up. Andriy turns to Irina.

  “Will you sing something for us, Ukrainka?”

  She gives him another hard look.

  “Why don’t you ask Emanuel?” She sinks her teeth into a piece of rabbit.

  Hm. He doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere with his girl.

  Dear sister,

  I wish you were here for in Kent the strawberries are even more delicate than the strawberries of Zomba.

  Today being my eighteenth birthday we have enjoyed an outstanding party. My mzungu friend Andree and I made a big bonfire which we lit upon much fevered flapping and smoking and there was a delicate feast prepared for us by a good Catholic Martyr though she is not yet ascended and after feasting we sat upon the hillside to behold the beauteous sunset (though not as beauteous as the sunsets of Zomba) with the sun setting like a firey disk and die first star of the ferment twinkiling like a diamond in the sky and the hills cool in their darkening. And when our hearts were opened everybody began to sing.

  The Poland mzungu named Toemash has a guitar which is of extreme interest to me and he sang a ballad of a man with a tambourine and his many jangly followers. Then the two China girls sang in high soprano an ineffable song of great beauty. The Ukraine girl also sang sweetly with choral accompaniment from Andree who eyed her eagerly. Then the Catholic Martyr sang a song of praise with assistance from her auntie. And I sang my song Oh come Oh come Emanuel which I learnt from Sister Theodosia. And at the end everybody sang Happy Birthday Dear Emanuel and it came to pass that this outstanding song is available not only in English but also in Ukrainian Polish and Chinese!!! And so united in song we enjoyed the Radiance of the evening.

  I had drunk two cans of lager, which is more than I’m used to. Whenever anyone poured a drink, Mother always used to put on her preachy voice and say, “Irina, a drunken woman is like a blighted rose.” In fact everyone, even Marta, had drunk too much. Marta was doing the washing up now. Yola was supposed to be helping, but she had disappeared. The Chinese girls had drunk two lagers each and had gone back inside the caravan—they are very sensitive to midges. Emanuel had drunk eight, and had fallen asleep, stretched out in front of the embers. Tomasz had drunk six, moaning all the while that he would much rather have a glass of good Georgian wine, and now he was strumming another miserable dirge about how much the times are changing. Vitaly was gathering up the empty cans and counting his takings for the evening. Andriy had drunk at least eight, I noticed, and when I pushed his hand away from my knee he wandered off a bit unsteadily down the field. A drunken miner is not very appealing.

  As the sun went down the air started to turn cool, nipping my bare arms and legs, so I went back inside the caravan to find my jumper and jeans. Yola was sitting there, combing her dyed hair and daubing on cheap pink lipstick in preparation for her date with that podgy farmer. She kept jumping up to look out of the window like an over-excited poodle dog. Suddenly she yapped, “Look at that, girls. We have a visitor.”

  She pointed out of the window. Instead of the farmer’s Land Rover, a huge black mafia-machine was pulling up at the bottom of the field. My heart thumped. It was like a fist punching my chest. The car door swung open, and a bulky black-clad figure emerged. Even at that distance I recognised him.

  Vulk looked around, then he started walking clumsily up the field, treading on the clumps of strawberries. I didn’t stop to think. I jumped up and dashed out of the door without looking behind me. I slipped through the gap in the hedge into the copse. My heart was thumping away. Keeping my head down, I crept along the other side of the hedge, away from the caravan and back into a thicket of trees. Behind a dense evergreen bush I crouched down and listened. I could hear voices, men’s and women’s, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The blood was beating so loud inside my head I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. It was like one of those bad dreams where the beating of your own heart wakes you up. Thump thump. I dug my nails into my palms, but the pain was real.

  After a while, Yola came out into the field and called my name.

  “Irina? Irina? Come, girl, there is a handsome-man visitor for you.”

  That woman is so dire. Why doesn’t she go off with Vulk herself if she likes him so much? He’s probably just her type. I sat motionless, holding onto my breath, until Yola gave up and went back to the caravan. Then I let my breath out. But still I sat tight. This was a waiting game between us, him and me. On a branch, a few inches from my nose, a spider was spinning its web, working away furiously. I watched as it dropped down o
nto a lower twig, then clambered back up its silky ladder, heaving its fat body on its spidery little legs. Then it sat in the centre of its web and waited for its prey to pull at the threads.

  After some time I heard Vulk’s voice. He was by the hedge. He started calling, “Little flower! Come, little flower! Come!”

  That sludgy voice. My stomach turned. I couldn’t see from my hiding place, but I could imagine the ponytail flicking from side to side.

  “Come! Come!”

  I breathed in and held my breath. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure he must be able to hear it as he wandered up and down beside the hedge, his footsteps heavy on the ground. Crunch crunch. “Little flower! Little flower!”

  Then a horrible familiar smell hit my nostrils. He had lit a cigar. He must be standing in the field by the hedge, smoking. Puff. Stink. I couldn’t see him but I could smell him nearby. My whole body was tense, my breathing fast and shallow, like when you’re trying to run in a nightmare but your limbs are locked. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. The light was fading from the sky. After a while the smell of the cigar faded, too. Was it safe to come out? I was just about to move when I heard voices again. He was back at the caravan. I strained my ears. I couldn’t catch what he said, but I heard Yola’s vulgar laugh, then after another eternity the sound I’d been waiting for—the engine of the mafia-machine starting up.

  The gate closed with a clack, and the engine noise dissipated into the stillness.

  It was twilight when I finally dared to emerge from my hiding place, back into the brightness of the caravan.

  “Oh, here you are!” cried Marta. “I was so worried.”

  “Here you are!” Yola’s voice had a scolding edge. She looked me up and down, and winked in a vulgar way. “You hev secret lower.” She said it in English, for the benefit of the Chinese girls. “Good-looking man looking for you.”

  “Not so good-looking.” I wrinkled my nose.

  The Chinese girls laughed.

  “Good-looking enough,” said Yola. “Not a baldie. Plenty good hairs.”

  “Too long. Looks like woman hairs,” said Chinese Girl One. “Like Toh-mah.” They both giggled like mad.

  “He had flowers,” said Yola.

  “Flowers? What for?” The thought of him bringing me flowers made me feel sick.

  “A flower in hand for you. Hee hee.” Chinese Girl Two cupped her chin in her hands laughing with glee. “Pink flower. Pink. Flower of love.” As though pink would make all the difference. They all thought it was a big joke.

  “I do not want those flowers,” I said nonchalantly. I was still elated at my escape, and the last thing I wanted was to remember that terrifying journey, the cold chips, the nausea, the fear. “The man is not only old, but he is rather ugly, with minimum culture.”

  “We are all God’s creatures,” said Marta reproachfully. I suppose no one has ever given her flowers, on account of her large nose. She is a very kind person, but sometimes I think she takes her religion too far.

  Andriy has drunk at least eight cans of lager, and now he has his back towards the field and is concentrating on the pleasurable sensation of aiming a warm torrent of piss at a stubborn nettle growing out of the hedge. It wavers under the stream, but bounces back. He takes aim and hits it again. It bends but doesn’t break. Its sharp leaves glisten cheekily as he zips up his fly. I’ll be back to get you later, he promises the dogged little plant.

  As he returns towards the caravan in the fading illusory dusk, his eyes light on a vision of incredible beauty. Is he drunk or dreaming? Generously proportioned, sensuously curved, beautiful yet mysterious, ferocious yet pliant, monstrous yet perfectly crafted. He stretches out his hand, his fingers trembling to touch. Yes, she is real. He strokes the gleaming body of black and chrome. He walks around her. Yes, from every angle, she is perfect.

  And inside? He tries the passenger door. It is not locked. He climbs in, clambers across to the driver’s seat, sinks into the soft but firm tobacco-fragrant leather. What height. What power. He fondles the leather-cased steering wheel. He runs his hands over the dashboard. What an array of controls. He depresses the clutch. He shifts through all the gears. The transmission glides like butter. He tries out the brake and accelerator pedals. They are firm but yielding. He searches for the ignition key. It is not there. He tries the glove compartment. He feels inside. Something is there—something bulky and cold. Not keys. A gun. Devil’s bum!

  He takes it out, holds it, turns it over in his hands. His fingers close around it. Its menace is palpable. He opens it up—why are there only five bullets in the barrel? What happened to the sixth? Not quite knowing why, he takes the gun and slips it into the pocket of his trousers. The weight pulls against his belt. He likes the feeling of its presence, close to him but out of sight. He climbs down from the vehicle and quietly closes the door.

  By the time he gets back to the bonfire, he finds that all the women have gone inside. Emanuel is asleep. Vitaly has disappeared. Tomasz is still singing sadly to himself. He decides to have one more go at that wretched nettle before turning in for the night. He is standing in the shadow between the hedge and the men’s caravan when he sees the owner of the black four-by-four come down the field and climb into the driver’s seat. Even in the dusky light, Andriy can see that he is an unprepossessing man. What a waste. And then there’s the little matter of the gun—what does he need a gun for?

  The events that follow take place so quickly, and in such a confusion of dazzle and darkness and too much lager, that afterwards, he is never quite sure exactly what happened.

  Just as the twilight swallows up the tail-lights of the four-by-four, the sound of another engine rips through the stillness of the valley. At first he thinks it is the farmer’s Land Rover running rough, but the sound is louder, deeper, with an exciting throbbing under-beat. He steps out, hoping to catch a glimpse as it races by. But the engine stops at the gate, the gate swings open, and in roars the red Ferrari, hood down, headlights blazing. He feels his head start to spin. Twice in one night. This must be a dream. And then out of the Ferrari steps the blonde.

  She is perhaps more mature than he imagined, but the confusing light can play all sorts of tricks. She is tall, too, taller than him, with blond hair pinned in an untidy nest on top of her head. She is wearing tight white trousers that catch the dazzle of the headlights, revealing a shape that is not as shapely as he dreamed, maybe more sedan model, but still definitely the blonde blue-eyed Angliska rosa. She steps forward without noticing him lurking by the caravan, and strides up into the field.

  “Lawrence!” she shouts, in a voice that is sharp and resonant with fury. “Lawrence, where are you? Come here, you bastard!”

  Her words echo around the valley, and are met with silence.

  Despite his initial disappointment, Andriy thinks he should seize the moment, if only for the sake of the Ferrari. This is after all a night of magic, in which two amazing things have already happened, and all sorts of mysteries and transformations may be possible. He steps out of the shadows opening his palms in a gesture of appeasement.

  “Lady…”

  She swings round to face him.

  “And who are you?” she barks. Really, her voice is not as he had imagined it either.

  “Lady...”

  Suddenly his English deserts him. So stepping forward he does something he has seen older men do in Ukraine, but has never done before in his life, something that would normally make him cringe with embarrassment to think of; but now it just seems the right thing to do. He takes her hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses it.

  The effect is instantaneous. The Angliska rosa grabs him in both her arms, and kisses him ferociously on the mouth. This is a pleasant surprise. He knows he is quite attractive to women—well, he’s had some successes in the past—but never before has the magic been so immediate. Leaning back on the bonnet of the Ferrari, she pulls him down on top of her and kisses him vigorously. Her lips are warm and taste of
whisky. Her body, like the upholstery of the four-by-four, is firm but yields to his touch.

  “You’ll do, poppet.” She rips open the buttons of his shirt. What’s going on here? Is this a typical English display of passion? He notices with another small stab of disappointment that the sports car is not a Ferrari at all but a Honda (still, it is a sports car, and a red one) and her Angliska rosa mouth is insistent and dominating in a way that reminds him strangely of…yes, his first kiss. Vagvaga Riskegipd sitting astride him on the steps of Sheffield City Hall, forcing her determined little tongue between his lips. These Angliski women!

  Then he hears the engine-roar of another car pulling into the field, but when he tries to take a look, she yanks his head down firmly, his mouth on hers. Her tongue is working hard. The next thing he hears is Yola’s voice, shrieking from the top of the field, “Dumpling! Dumpling! Watch out!”

  Fighting back against the blonde’s embrace, he lifts his head and sees the farmer standing by the Land Rover, staring back at him. He doesn’t look very pleased. Pinned to the bonnet of the sports car in the grip of the blonde, Andriy is starting to wonder whether it was wise to surrender to the passion of this unpredictable Angliska rosa.

  “What the hell…? You bitch! You bloody bitch!” The farmer strides towards them. The Angliska rosa looks up over Andriy’s shoulder and with her free hand, not the one that is fumbling with his fly zip, she gestures at the farmer with two fingers. Andriy tries to seize the moment to escape, but the blonde holds him fast, and now the enraged farmer runs forward with a roar, and flings himself onto Andriy’s back. Holy whiskers! This is not turning out at all according to plan. He is trapped between the two of them like the meat in some mad sandwich. The farmer’s weight is crushing the breath out of him. As the farmer thrashes about, his rough hands grappling with Andriy’s throat, the blonde wriggles out from underneath them, clambers back into the sports car and turns the engine on. The car lurches forward and the farmer slides off the bonnet onto the ground with a thud.