Little White Lies (56 page)

Elsa bustled over, adjusting the blankets over his knees, fussing with his cardigan. ‘It’s Míla, Vladimir. Míla. And that’s her daughter. Your granddaughter,
glupets.
’
Silly man
. It was said affectionately.

The old man must have recognised something in her tone for he smiled, a wide, toothless grin. His hand went up to his mouth and he pressed it, saying angrily to his wife, ‘Why haven’t I got my teeth in? Where are my teeth?’

Elsa sighed. ‘Your gums were sore this morning, Vladimir, don’t you remember? No, wait . . . I’ll go and get them. But I want to put some of that gel on first . . . no? All right, I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Her grandmother got up heavily and went to fetch his false teeth. He grabbed them from her and then concentrated carefully on the plates, deciding which was which. He inserted them slowly, his mouth masticating as though chewing on some long-forgotten piece of food. Finally it was done. His voice, when it came, was different; higher-pitched and more controlled. It seemed to Tash to be the voice of a puppet, speaking in a language and at a pitch no one fully understood. No one paid him much attention anyhow; their squeals and exclamations of delight were directed at the three open suitcases on the crowded sitting-room floor. Like a demented creature in a cartoon strip, Lyudmila dived in, pulling out gifts, one after the other. Friends and neighbours stood around, arms folded across their chests as though holding in their hearts and comments, watching enviously as Elsa disappeared under the mountain of clothing, shoes, perfumes and toiletries, the likes of which she’d clearly never seen before and certainly never in such industrial quantities.

Tash got up from her seat in the middle of the room and walked to the window. She looked down at the playground, six storeys below. The ten-storey apartments stretched on for a kilometre or more, indistinguishable from each other. It was hard to think of Lyudmila growing up here, one blonde schoolgirl amongst so many others, but in some ways, it made many of her idiosyncrasies – so utterly inexplicable to an English teenager – understandable, in an odd way. One of the neighbours had let it drop that the apartments in Krylatskoe were still heated for free, thank God. No wonder Lyudmila always left the lights on or the heating turned up. Someone else commented on the government’s plans to start charging for prescriptions. Again, little wonder Lyudmila was a hypochondriac. She was used to free medical treatment, free dental treatment, free heating and light. The Soviet Union wasn’t quite the bleak wasteland of underachievement, shortages and ruin she’d made it out to be. Tash saw now that for all their material deprivation, there was a closeness and warmth that existed between these people who’d lived cheek-by-jowl through some of the biggest upheavals of the twenty-first century. They’d emerged from it all with their humour and generosity intact, their humanity untouched and unharmed. She swallowed hard. It was light years away from London and the life she knew to be hers.

As if on cue, her grandmother got up, not without difficulty – she was a large woman, almost as tall as Tash – and lumbered over towards her, holding out a light-blue shirt. ‘
Davai, malysh, pomerei etu
.’ Come on, little one, try this one on. Tash hurriedly wiped her cheeks. She looked at the shirt her grandmother was holding out and only just managed to hold onto her eyeballs. Topmark. Oh,
God.
Could there be anything worse?

Hours later, Tash lay on the sitting-room sofa, tossing and turning in an attempt to fold her six-foot frame comfortably into a space that was considerably less. Quite why they had to spend their nights as well as their days in Krylatskoe was a mystery. It was an hour’s cab ride back to the splendour of the Ritz-Carlton and besides, people here went to sleep early, like chickens. She’d looked dubiously at the bath – a narrow, cold-looking affair with rusting taps – and thought longingly of the enormous wet room at the suite they’d just vacated. The entire flat would fit into the bathroom with bags of room to spare all round. She sighed and shifted uncomfortably, changing position for the umpteenth time. It was no bloody use.

She got up quietly. Her bladder was full, the effect of far too much vodka and truly dreadful red wine. She tiptoed out into the corridor, heading for the toilet. The front door was ajar, she noticed as she went past. She stopped to close it and then heard two people talking outside. She peered through the crack. It was her mother and that friend of hers, Tatiana, after whom Tash was supposedly named. They were standing in the outside corridor, smoking. Blue cigarette smoke curled and rose lazily towards the overhead light.

‘It’s a pity,’ she heard Tatiana say. Her foot, encased in its high-heeled sandal, was just visible out of the corner of Tash’s eye. ‘A real pity. When I think of how beautiful
you
were, you know? You still are, Míla. Still beautiful.’

‘Oh, no, not anymore. I
used
to be beautiful, Tatia. Not anymore. It’s all finished now.’

‘No, I’m telling you. Compared to us?’ She gave a harsh, hoarse laugh. ‘You’ve kept your figure, no wrinkles. You’re still a very attractive woman, Míla. Lucky you. But it’s a pity about Tatiana. She’s done well for herself, yes, but she’s not beautiful. Not like you.’

Tash felt a cool flush of embarrassment ripple lightly up her spine. Her shoulders hunched.

‘No, she’s not beautiful,’ Lyudmila sighed. She paused for a moment, presumably drawing on her cigarette. ‘And no boyfriend, can you believe it? Never. I used to think . . . well, I don’t need to spell it out. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. She’s
rich
.’

Tash didn’t wait to hear the rest. Hot with embarrassment and shame, she tiptoed down the corridor to the bathroom.
No boyfriend. Never
. What did it matter how much money she had? In Lyudmila’s eyes – in
everyone’s
eyes – she was an object of pity, someone to cluck sympathetically over, not someone to admire.

REBECCA
Jerusalem

Immense washes of summer light spilled over the hills, bathing the city in a dusty luminosity, like the great, slow blinking of an eye. First this building, then that one – the red glare struck the sandy Jerusalem stone, turning the entire city blush-pink as the sun began to sink. Rebecca read the Hebrew and Arabic street names with difficulty as she negotiated her way slowly up Chopin Street and then turned left as the map directed. She turned into Pinsker Street. Just before the park at the end of the road, she saw the small brown sign. The
Arabic Affairs Council
. She pulled up opposite and cut the engine. A giant swathe of bougainvillea shaded the entrance to the house. In the dying light, the flowers looked as though they were on fire. She locked the car and hurried across. The wrought-iron gate creaked in protest as she pushed it open and stepped inside. A narrow flagstone path led from the gate towards the house, curving gracefully away from the road before opening out onto a dramatic view of terraced, manicured lawns sloping away down the hillside. The terraces were bordered by lush, semi-tropical plants and flowerbeds, bursting with blossoms of all shapes and colours. The effect was startling. She felt like Alice, stepping through the looking glass. A sprinkler on the second or third terrace twisted wildly, its soft ‘phut-phut’ tapping a rhythm to her steps as she walked along seeking the entrance. At last she found it, partially hidden from view by terracotta pots of olive trees and a climbing trellis of pale pink roses. She stopped, nervously twisting her hair into a ponytail, and smoothed down her skirt. She raised a hand and knocked lightly on the front door.

Someone answered, in Arabic, then in Hebrew. She pushed open the door cautiously. A young woman in a headscarf and veil came out of one of the rooms, a pile of files in her arms. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, again in Arabic first, then in Hebrew.

‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ Rebecca said apologetically. ‘English?’

‘Can I help you?’

‘I . . . I was just wondering . . . I’m looking for Tariq. Tariq Malouf?’

The girl looked at her, her expression difficult to read. Then she beckoned to Rebecca. ‘Come.’

She followed her into the office. Tariq was sitting at a desk by the window. He looked up as they entered. For a second she and Tariq looked at one other in mutual incomprehension.

‘I . . . I . . . was just passing,’ Rebecca stammered, unable to take her eyes off Tariq’s face. ‘And I saw the sign outside. I thought I’d just drop in and . . . and say hello. After the other night, at the concert, I mean.’ She stopped, aware she was babbling.

The girl looked uncertainly at Tariq. He shook his head, murmuring something to her in Arabic. She withdrew, quietly closing the door behind her.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ Tariq suddenly got to his feet. He pulled a chair out for her, placing it opposite him.

‘Th-thanks,’ Rebecca stammered, grateful for the chance to sit down. Her legs were feeling distinctly wobbly.

‘So,’ he said, walking back to his own chair. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

‘I was just passing by,’ Rebecca began again, flustered. ‘I was in the city for the afternoon. I . . . I went to see my aunt the other day, Aunt Bettina . . .’ Her voice trailed off. She was painfully aware of the hot blush spreading up her neck and face.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers peaked in front of his face, his expression carefully neutral. An awkward silence followed. Rebecca looked at her own hands: ridiculous – they were trembling. ‘How
is
your aunt?’ he asked after a moment.

She lifted her eyes to meet his. What colour were his eyes? Hazel, brown, green? She couldn’t tell, not from that distance. ‘She’s . . . fine.’ There was another awkward pause. ‘I wish I’d spent more time with her when . . . when I was younger,’ she added lamely.

‘It’s a common wish.’ He looked at her closely, as if trying to figure something out, but gave little away. The faintly amused air he’d carried the other night was gone; in its place was a grave solemnity that made her regret her silly decision to get in the car and drive to Jerusalem. What had she come here for? She could feel her blush deepening.

She swallowed nervously. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said quickly, wondering whether she ought to get up now and save herself any further embarrassment or try and talk her way out of what was rapidly turning into her most humiliating half hour since Dr Jeremy Garrick. At the thought of Garrick, she almost choked. ‘Aunt Bettina said we used to . . . to play together, when we were kids. It’s strange, I don’t remember any of it, so I thought . . . well, I just thought I’d stop by and ask you, you know, if—’

‘You were very young,’ he interrupted her gently. He seemed to be weighing her up, deciding which way, in his mind, she might fall. Good or bad, friend or foe, desirable or not. A childish urge to please came over her. She suddenly wished she were better looking, more beautiful.

‘I saw a picture,’ she said hesitantly. ‘In one of her albums. It was of the four of us. My cousin Adam, you, your sister and me. Adam had his arm round you.’ She looked at him. He was listening to her with polite attention. ‘Aunt Bettina told me about Maryam, your sister . . . I wish . . . I wish I could remember her.’

He took a deep breath suddenly, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, the soft, full lip disappearing underneath the row of white, even teeth. She watched as he brought up a hand to his face, fingers stroking the dark stubble beneath the skin. It was almost dark in his office. Dusk had come upon them suddenly, the light withdrawing so slowly that neither had noticed. He reached out to switch on a small desk lamp; greenish light suddenly flooded the room. Then, without any transition from the formality with which he’d received her, he placed a hand on her forearm. She stared at it for a second, her heartbeat accelerating. ‘Will you come and see me?’ he asked, his eyes locked on hers. ‘Tomorrow evening. I’ll be in Tel Aviv.’

‘Yes,’ she said simply. His grip on her forearm tightened. And so, right there in his office, sitting across from each other in the rather formal manner of two people who might have come together for an official meeting, there was suddenly between them the unexpected covenant of desire.

He came into the bar at the appointed hour. She watched him come down the steps, duck under the doorway and look quickly around. She’d been there for all of twenty minutes, a half-finished glass of wine in front of her, an unlit cigarette in the clean ashtray at her elbow. She had to have something to do with her hands. Her freshly washed hair curled loosely about her face. Jeans, high-heeled black boots, a midnight-blue silk shirt open to the third button, showing a sliver of her silver chains between her breasts – she was indistinguishable from the well-dressed, elegant men and women who were sitting at the long marble bar. The restaurant was his choice. Hamra, on Ha’Yarkon Street. He’d written down the address for her in his office.

‘You’re here.’ He was beside her, looking down at her as he unwound his scarf.

She nodded, her heart in her mouth. ‘I left the kids with Julian,’ she murmured, then stopped, kicking herself. Why on earth had she mentioned her husband and children in the first breath?

‘What’re you drinking?’ He ignored her obvious discomfort and slid onto the stool next to her. He was dressed casually: a navy jacket, light-blue shirt, jeans . . . she didn’t dare look any further or closer.

‘I’m not sure,’ she confessed. ‘I just needed . . . something.’

‘Well, I’ll share the “something” with you. May I?’ She nodded vigorously. He lifted the glass to those full, red lips. ‘Not bad.’ He signalled to the waiter. ‘Another one,’ he said, in perfect, fluent Hebrew. She watched him, transfixed.

‘I read you’d studied at Julliard,’ she began hesitantly.

He nodded. ‘Studied there, taught there for a while.’

‘Where do you live now?’

He shrugged. ‘Like you, some months here, some months there. You go where the work takes you.’

‘Not like me, then,’ she gave a rueful smile.

‘Perhaps not.’ He lifted his glass. ‘And you? How long are
you
here for?’