You Cant Pickle Love
Gor realised it was a Tuesday when the day was half-way through. Hed been caught up by Mussorgsky roaring from the record player. Mussorgsky always stirred his soul; both a pleasure, and a pain. This Tuesday, bright but with a chill, it was regret that bubbled to the surface as he tried to remember a trick, the Sands of the Nile.
The trick was a good one, when it worked. He would reach into a giant bowl of murky, swirling water and, with a grand flourish, extract perfectly dry piles of brightly coloured sand. Children always loved it. He remembered, suddenly, how Olga used to dangle her fingers in the bowl as he practised. He couldnt believe hed forgotten how to do it.
After shed gone, hed still been full of himself, forty-five years old and intent on success. Business had boomed, and hed grown fat and busy, obsessed with his creature comforts. Hed guzzled the fruit of the orchard and sat back in his chair, enjoying the view of autumn days stretching ahead, content in the knowledge that hed stored up for the leaner times and had it all bottled and pickled, everything he needed, at the back of the cupboard. But hed forgotten his soul. And as hed sat feeling smug, the material possessions hed stored up so carefully were silently eaten away, as if by mice. Only then did he realise you couldnt bottle happiness, you couldnt pickle love. Now here he was, scavenging on the dust pile, seeking out scraps and this time, all alone.
Old age had him by the scruff: he could barely walk without coughing, the legs were going too. The middle years, so important, so busy, had disappeared like so much melted snow, no more than a puddle on the mucky floor of his life. Where was the time? Where was the laughter? Where was his family, more to the point? Marina, his wife, Olga his daughter, even funny little Tolya? He had focused his energies on forecasts and fixed assets, budgets and bureaucracy. The wind buffeted the windows as he chewed his lip, pencil sleeping on the paper. How different life might have been, it whispered.
He looked up at the calendar: Tuesday 11th October. His mouth twitched, and he sprang from his chair. Rehearsal day! Sveta would be coming over. She would be limbering up at this very minute. The cabinet had to be readied, and a little bite of something prepared. He shushed Mussorgsky and headed to the bedroom to change. He would venture to the market. Tuesday was a good market day, as far as they went. And he would invest in some treats, in recognition of Svetas good comradeship.
As he stood wondering whether to opt for two sweaters, or one sweater and a jerkin, he heard a sound. It slipped into his ear: nothing much, just a tapping fingers on glass, quiet, insistent. He held his breath and listened: it echoed around the empty flat. Hardly threatening, stealthily soft, but it squeezed his heart.
tap-tap-tap
It was the sound of loneliness, the sound of cold nights. The tick of the clock, the beat of the heart; the tap of time, marching onwards. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. As if the intervening sixty years had not happened, he smelled pine needles and mud, machine oil and wood smoke. The wind whistled in the pines.
tap-tap-tap
He cried out, not a word, just a sound, a half-choked plea to no one. He knew that sound, it was familiar, like a half-remembered, recurring dream.
tap-tap-tap
Dasha, the queen cat, stepped silently through the door and four fluffy white kittens mewed their hellos. The spell was broken. Gor gulped in air and flung the wardrobe shut, cursing himself for a fool and stamping into his boots. How could he be scared of a little tapping! Where was his logic? Had his brain turned to fluff? There was no such thing as the supernatural! There were no such things as ghosts!
The kittens watched him, blue eyes wide, pretending to be brave with their backs arched and paws prancing. He apologised for the noise, smoothed down his wiry hair, and slammed out of the flat.
He found he needed some company, and the streets would serve very well.
Azovs market was a modern structure: solid and unfussy on the outside, warm, dark and smelly on the inside. Clear plastic panels in the high-pitched roof let light into the centre, but the edges were folded in shadows: it was best to visit during sunshine if you wanted to see what you were buying, and how much change you got. The scent of overripe fruit swung sweetly, heavy in the air. Glowing persimmons and fiery pomegranates lay in pyramids side-by-side with precious local honey and bags of winter grain, while on the floor sacks of potatoes and turnips lounged in lumpen splendour. Gor ploughed along the narrow aisle, blind to the rough-skinned stallholders as they called to him, thrusting out samples, flashing gold teeth and knife-blades as they cut cubes of melon and blisters of pomegranate seeds. He needed no fruit.
He stopped at a dairy stall for a small cube of cheese: whiter than snow, it was solid and salty, with the supple, rubbery texture he liked. Next he bought flat-leaf parsley, richly scented black bread, and a tiny pat of soft, salt-less butter that came wrapped in brown paper. He had his own aubergine spread and salted tomatoes in the store cupboard, the result of sweaty summer labours at the dacha. The snacks he would serve would be solid and unassuming. Savoury was required. Svetas warmness towards him, her sunny openness, made his palms sweat. There must be no hint of intimacy today: sweetmeats were out, as was anything pink, red or yellow. Bread and cheese would do: theirs must be friendship in the face of adversity and nothing more. He could not and should not encourage closeness.
Gors old string bag was almost full and it pulled at his shoulder. He was sniffing a tea sample, long nose buried amongst the pungent black leaves, when he had the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. He turned to his left, tea still in hand, and scanned the blur of faces and hats: brown, pink, sallow, fiery, knitted, woven, peaked; there was no one he knew, and no one was staring. He began to screw the lid back on and felt a sharp dig in his ribs. The tin dropped from his hand, showering leaves over the stall, his coat and the floor before clanging to the ground. The stallholder fell upon him, clucking her tongue and waving him away. A snigger slinked around his elbow and he turned to challenge the culprit, but there was no crowd behind him and no laughing faces: no one, in fact. He dusted down his coat and moved slowly on down the aisle, eyes roving restlessly between the stalls.
At the butcher, pigs heads laughed at him from hooks in the beams, dribbling blood onto the sawdust below. In a cage on the floor jostled half a dozen rabbits with whiffling pink noses. They regarded him with trembling intensity: white rabbits, exactly like the one he had found on his doorstep. A chopper whacked a knuckle of pork from its trotter, sending silver bone splinters and globules of fat high into the air. Gor jumped. The butcher laughed and bellowed something he did not understand. He shook his head and hurried down an aisle where the empty eyes of a hundred fishes watched him from brown bowls of salty slime. An old woman with two teeth stepped before him, waving a handful of cod roes under his nose. He felt bile rise in his throat and lurched for the exit.
He slammed through the door into an alley and leant momentarily against the bulk of a bin, breathing deeply, eyes shut. When he opened them, a stray dog, jaws clamped on a fish tail, was standing before him, growling softly. He began walking. He knew you should show no fear, but found it easier said than done. He could almost feel the mutts teeth ripping into his tendons, and broke into a trot, the string bag bumping uncomfortably on his hip. His footsteps echoed as he skipped around piles of leaves shifting on the paving slabs. He heard a whistle behind him: a familiar tune Mussorgsky, the very notes hed enjoyed at home this morning. He looked around, ankle turning in the leaves. The only movement was the limping, empty-eyed dog. He hurried on to the main street, relieved to join the bodies shuffling to and fro.
He passed a thick queue snaking around the corner. The face of each queuer was tormented, their voices calling out to no one, spitting shards of harsh words about robbers, thieves, the government, empty bellies and despair. No one listened, not even the other queuers. Gor walked on.
The head of the queue rested at a closed door: the local PPP Invest offices. A doorman shaped like a bullet stood immobile behind the glass. Someone threw a bank book and it bounced with a thud on the glass just left of his head. He put a hand inside his jacket where his heart should have been, and the crowd drew back, gasping. Gor hurried on and crossed the road, looking over his shoulders this way and that, without meaning to.
They were still trying to get their money out. Life savings invested in nothing but stupidity: PPP Invest a classic pyramid scheme. More and more people paid in an entire weeks pay, or a months pension, or a lifetimes savings, or even and the ridiculous dividends were paid out, week on week. But at some point, the fever had to break, didnt it? Thats how it worked: at a certain point, maximum capacity was reached, the promised dividend became simply unimaginable: as big as the moon. That was the point when the bosses snuck across the border with lorry-loads of dollars, and the investors were left behind with nothing but paper and despair. Just paper, fluttering in their hands, their plans of a happy retirement, or building their own house on the weekends, or buying a new fridge and TV so much salty water on their cheeks.
He stopped to cough into his handkerchief, eyeing the queue from around its edges, and felt a creeping in his neck. Someone was following him. He twisted around, eyes raking the crowd: a head turned quickly, a woman moved away. Gor checked his pockets, patting for wallet and keys, and whistled with relief: nothing missing. She was weaving through the crowd now, vaguely familiar. Did he know that girl? Did she know him? Maybe she just reminded him of someone? There were so many people now a forest of faces.
He stopped to cough into his handkerchief, eyeing the queue from around its edges, and felt a creeping in his neck. Someone was following him. He twisted around, eyes raking the crowd: a head turned quickly, a woman moved away. Gor checked his pockets, patting for wallet and keys, and whistled with relief: nothing missing. She was weaving through the crowd now, vaguely familiar. Did he know that girl? Did she know him? Maybe she just reminded him of someone? There were so many people now a forest of faces.