But in truth, Galia had realized fairly early on that she didnt really like Pasha at all. Once she had accepted this to herself, as a woman of principle, she became determined to make a good wife for him, as far as was possible: he was to be clean, his socks darned, meals provided, and other needs met. But despite her good intentions, it was not many years before her interest in him shrivelled like a late rose caught in a sly first frost. Once the home brew had dried up and the shed became a place where only the seedlings received any attention, she squared her shoulders and got on with other things. In time, this became her mantra: get on with things, and dont complain, and all will be well.
Pasha had started being away when he should be home almost before the wedding feast (boiled meat, potatoes, kvas and apples) had been fully digested and forgotten by all those concerned. Not that there were many guests to be had at their nuptials, most of their relatives and friends being missing, dead, in prison or building Communism elsewhere in the huge Union. Pashas absence hurt Galia at first, but in a dull sort of way. She had expected a man who would be there, making demands on her, eating her food, sleeping with her, giving her ultimatums, making a mess and demanding her attention when she was busy. But mostly she saw the back of his head: as he sat at his desk in the main room, studying papers from the factory, fingers and stubble streaked with ink; or as he stood on the balcony staring out into the evening, smoke from his cigarette rising straight and listless into the still summer sky; or as he slept on the sofa, sucking air noisily out of the room and hiding it in the cavity of his chest like a miser hoarding candle ends. And then there was the quiet mockery of the click of the closing door, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes just before a meal. Galia ate many meals for two alone. When she was lying on the bed waiting for him, wondering if there was something wrong with her, with her frizzy blonde hair and her pale skin, shed finish off his pie, lick the fork, and tell herself it didnt matter. Good food, honesty, timeliness, good neighbourliness: these were worthy enough causes.
At first she would listen to the familiar bossy tones of the radio while she waited. Sometimes housework kept her occupied, or some mending. Shed watch the children playing in the courtyard between the brand new blocks of flats, occasionally shouting down half-hearted remonstrations. And she would cook, even on the evenings when he did not come home at all, she would cook. Her favourite was vareniki like her own mother had made. Often she bottled fruit or vegetables, and when shed run out of her own produce shed take in endless cherries, plums, cucumbers and tomatoes from her neighbours to do the same for them. Her life revolved around ceaseless movements and small busy tasks for the hands, her methodical steps around the kitchen comforting and repetitive like notes on the balalaika when she was learning to dance before the war, her mother looking on sternly. How had she forgotten that for so long?
Galia gradually grew from a frail strip of a thing into a powerful, square-shouldered woman. She was not obese, and definitely not round: she had her corners, and a core of strength that underpinned all her movements. She ate her meals for two in quiet solitude, stolidly, slowly and with care. She became resigned to the fact that Pasha was having an affair, or maybe several. She never heard any gossip, and didnt know who was involved, but had no other rational explanation. The woman behind the counter at the bakery always gave her a sly look. Then again, maybe it was one of the gypsy women who lived down by the river. Perhaps one of the women at the factory, one of the ones who wore trousers and smoked in the yard, had finally gained his attention. Heaven knew, young women outnumbered men four to one since the war, and some were not bothered where they scratched that particular itch. Perhaps it was her duty to share her husband? It was only her pride that was hurt, after all. But she could not get the thought to leave her head: why wasnt his home enough for him?
When Galia finally nodded off just before six a.m., her dreams were full of weird flashing scenes, strangely stilted and discoloured, as if she were back at the mobile cinema with the dirty cigarette smoke swirling about her like fog and the tinny speakers detached from the walls and clamped to her head. Faceless people talked nonsense, words coming out chopped up or backwards or speeded up, and nothing making sense. As she sat in the film dream she knew, with a creeping dread that rolled snail trails down her spine, that there was something vital she had forgotten to do. She couldnt remember what, and was frantic with worry. She had caused a catastrophe due to her own stupidity. But then the feeling faded and the face of Pasha loomed in front of her. He was shoving at her, angry, with the veins in his forehead standing out and pulsating. All of a sudden a furious bark erupted from his mouth. Pasha lunged at her, teeth bared and arms outstretched, making directly for her face. Galia woke with a start, covered in a cold sweat.
She shook herself free of the last remnants of the dream and, putting on the bedside light, made sure that her arms and legs were still in roughly working order. Her knees and ankles were stiff and puffy, and bruises had appeared up and down both legs. She needed to feel human, and needed some company. There were reasons why it was stupid to delve too deeply into the past, reason one being that the present was no place for the dead. She crept into the kitchen, made a cup of tea so strong she feared it may be poisonous, and looked at the clock. An acceptable hour to ring? Six-fifty was acceptable in Galias book, and she telephoned Zoya, for help and support and some kind of plan.
Zoya: popular lover of culture, queen of local theatre and the arts, spinster, gossip and until very recently, Greco-Roman wrestler. Her thinning hair, spun into a brittle nest on top of her bird-like head, was a different colour every week. Tiny Zoya, hopping from friend to friend, quoting, quothing, groping for truths among all the lies, trying to find out what was making each and every citizen tick, and tock, and stop and go. She was a live-wire at most times of the day and in almost all settings. She had wanted to join the circus as a girl, but was forced to become a seamstress, or something like that, by luck or fate or the State, Galia couldnt really recall. Zoya: lover of the Zodiac, Pontiacs, Shakespeare and Lenin. She had a comment for every occasion, and an occasion for every hour of every day.
Yes, rasped a voice climbing out of a living grave. It was early for Zoya. This had better be good.
Zoya took the news of Vasyas arrest and Borodas removal as Galia expected she might: there was a soft thunk as she fainted against the telephone table followed by a few seconds of rustling as she revived herself with the smelling salts she always kept by her side and some choice, rather long-winded swearwords.
How could they do this! Murdering poor Vasya and Boroda! Call the police!
Zoya, theyre not dead, and it was the police who took him. But Vasya wasnt even beaten: hes an old man. They arrested him they just shoved him a bit, twisted his arm a little: hes like spaghetti anyway; he wont be any the worse for wear. But Boroda he had her by the scruff, Zoya, and he dangled her I really dont know whether shes and Zoya, I feel so responsible! What can we do? I dont know where to turn. Its my fault. The old fool wouldnt have been involved if it hadnt been for me. And now hes arrested and I dont think he even has a change of socks with him. I havent slept Im at my wits end.
The course of true love never did run smooth, my dear. And what exactly was he doing at your apartment at midnight? You always told me that you didnt like him. You were very strongly of the opinion that he should leave you alone to your cabbages and turnips. I am, I must admit, thrown, very strongly, by the fact that he was in your boudoir at the dead of night.
It wasnt like that, Zoya. He helped me get the dog back in the first place, and he got knocked on the shins, so I had to have him in to put some iodine on the wounds. I couldnt have him walking around with septic shins, could I? What woman would do that?
And now instead hes arrested, and the dog taken away too. Galia, this isnt like you. Tragedy hardly ever afflicts your life. You are not a tragic woman. You never cry even, let alone feel passions, shaking you like truths falling from heaven. Unlike my own path the trouble Ive seen Galia, and now you add to it! My own dear mother once warned me
Galia looked at the clock and sighed. She didnt have time to listen to one of Zoyas histories today. Shed heard them all before, and while entertaining on occasion, this was not the occasion.
that the Ides of March itself was not to be denied
Zinaida Artyomovna, be silent for a second!
Again rustling, again the clink of the bottle of smelling salts and a long exhalation.
Im sorry, my dear, but this is an emergency, and I need your help. What should I do? How can I free Vasya from the police station? And how can I get my own Boroda back if its not too late. Please help me!
Ah, such trouble! Dont hurry me, Galia. I am near deaths door: it takes a while for the old fleas to start hopping and the ideas to start popping at this time in the morning. For the best: meet me at the Golden Sickle in an hour. Well plan our actions then, once Ive had a chance to collect myself, said Zoya in a dreamy voice, and rang off.
Fifty-eight minutes later, Galia was sitting on a hard wooden chair at the Golden Sickle. It couldnt be classed as a cafe, nor a restaurant, nor even a refectory, and it certainly was not a bistro. The food was plain, but usually edible, and that was all that was necessary. This was a place where people went to eat, not to socialise or show off, or relax. Galia sipped her tea and tried not to fiddle with the spoon as the clatter of cutlery against china jarred the air around her. The only voice heard above the metallic din was that of the cashier, barking unlikely numbers at dumbfounded customers as they queued to pay.