Two Caravans Part 16

When he was thirteen, his father had bought a second-hand sky-blue Zaporozhets 965-the Zaz they called it affectionately, humpbacked like a kind old granddad. It was the first ma.s.s-produced workers' car in Ukraine. Real metal body-not fibreboard rubbish like the Trabant. He was the first person in their apartment block to own one. Every Sunday he cleaned and polished it out in the street, and sometimes he and Andriy would spend a couple of hours together, head to head under the bonnet, just tinkering. (Listen, boy, his father had said. Listen to the music of internal combustion.) His dad would tune the engine fine-fine, to make it run sweetly. Tut-ut-ut-ut-ut-ut. Those were good times. As the car got older, the tinkering sessions grew longer. Together, they ground down the valves and replaced the solenoid and the clutch. He learnt something about car engines, but the main thing he learnt was that all problems can be solved if you approach them in a patient and methodical way. In the end, the car outlived his father. Poor Dad.

This girl-he has tried to approach her in a patient and methodical way, but she is more unpredictable than a slipping gearbox. Will he ever get to the fine-tuning stage? Hm. He turns off into a side street, and then another, following a narrow alleyway between two tall buildings. Here's a piece of waste ground where something has been demolished, with a sign saying No Parking and some vehicles parked. This'll do.

"Let's walk?"

"Let's walk." Now, for some unfathomable reason, she's smiling.

The weather is too warm. Despite the recent rain, the air is already dusty again. It smells of car fumes and blocked drains and the miscellaneous smells of the five million other people who are breathing it at the same time. He feels an unexpected excitement rising in him. This London-once you've got your feet on the ground, and you don't have to worry about those Angliski bandit-drivers-this London is quite something.

He is amazed, at first, just by the vastness of it-the way it goes on and on until you forget there is anything beyond it. OK, he has seen Canterbury and Dover, but nothing can prepare you for the sheer excess of this city. Cars that glide as smooth and silent as silver swans, deluxe model, not the battered old smoke-belchers you get back home. Office blocks that almost blot out the sky. And everything in good order-roads, pavements, etc-all well maintained. But why are all the buildings and statues covered in pigeon-droppings? Those swaggering birds are everywhere. Dog is delighted. He chases them around, barking and leaping with joy.

They come to a row of shops, and the windows are stuffed with desirable items. Minute mobilfons, packed with advanced features, everything compact and cleverly made; movie cameras small enough to fit in your hand; cunning miniature music systems, a thousand different tunes, more, at your command; wall-sized televisions with pictures of amazing vividness, imagine sitting back with a gla.s.s of beer to watch the football, better than being at the match, better view; programmable CD players; multi-function DVD players; high-spec computers with unimaginable numbers of rams, gigs, hertz, etc. Too much choice. Yes, so many things that you didn't desire before because you didn't even know they existed to be desired.

He lingers, he reads the lists of special features, studies them almost furtively, as if standing on the threshold of uncharted sin. Such a surfeit of everything. Where did all this stuff come from? Irina is trailing behind, staring into the window of a clothes shop, a look of unbelief on her face.

Food shops, restaurants-everything is here, yes, every corner of the globe has been rifled to furnish this abundance. And the people, too, have been rifled from all over-Europe, Africa, India, the Orient, the Americas, so many different types all mixed together, such a crowd from everywhere under the sun, rubbing shoulders on the pavements without even looking at each other. Some are talking on mobilfons-even the women. And all well dressed-clothes like new. And the shoes-new shoes made of leather. No carpet slippers, like people wear in the street back home.

"Watch out!"

He is so intent on the shoes that he almost stumbles into a young woman walking fast-fast on high heels, who backs away snarling, "Get off me!"

"What are you dreaming about, Andriy?"

Irina grabs him and pulls him out of the way. The feel of her hand on his arm is like quickfire. The woman walks on even faster. The look in her eyes-it was worse than contempt. She looked straight through him. He didn't register in her eyes at all. His clothes-his best s.h.i.+rt shabby and washed out, brown trousers that were new when he left home, Ukrainian trousers made of cheap fabric that is already shapeless, held up by a cheap imitation-leather belt, and imitation-leather shoes beginning to split on the toes-his clothes make him invisible.

"Everybody looks so smart. It makes me feel like a country peasant," says Irina, as if she can read his thoughts. This girl. Yes, her jeans are worn and strawberry stained, but they fit delightfully over her curves, and her hair gleams like a bird's wing and she's smiling teeth and dimples at all the world.

"Don't say that. You look..." He wants to put his arms round her. "...You look normal."

Should he put his arms round her? Better not-she might shriek 'Leave me alone!' So they walk on, just wandering aimlessly through the streets, opening their eyes to all there is to be seen. Dog runs ahead making a nuisance of himself, diving in between people's legs. Yes, this London-it's quite something.

But why-this is what he can't understand-why is there such abundance here, and such want back home? For Ukrainians are as hard working as anybody-harder, because in the evenings after a day's work they grow their vegetables, mend their cars, chop their wood. You can spend your whole life toiling, in Ukraine, and still have nothing. You can spend your whole life toiling, and end up dead in a hole in the ground, covered with fallen coal. Poor Dad.

"Look!"

Irina is pointing to a small dark-skinned woman wearing a coloured scarf like the women of the former eastern republics. She has a baby bundled up in her arms, and she is approaching pa.s.sers-by, begging for money. The baby is horribly deformed, with a harelip and one eye only partially opened.

"Have you got any money, Andriy?"

He fumbles in his pockets, feeling vaguely annoyed with the woman, because he hasn't much money left, and he would rather spend it on...well, not on her, anyway. But he sees the way Irina is looking at the baby.

"Take it please," he says in Ukrainian, handing her two pound coins. The woman looks at the coins, and at them, and shakes her head.

"Keep your money," she says in broken Russian. "I have more than you."

She takes the baby off and sidles up to a j.a.panese couple who are photographing a statue covered with pigeon-droppings.

They have already turned and started to retrace their steps when Irina spots, in the window of a stylish restaurant where the tables are set for the evening meal, a small card discreetly stuck in one corner: Staff-wanted. Good pay. Accommodation provided Staff-wanted. Good pay. Accommodation provided.

"Oh, Andriy! Look! This may be just the right place for us. Here in the heart of London. Let's enquire."

What does she mean, 'the right place for us'? How have she and he suddenly become 'us'? Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, because really she is a nice-looking girl, and she has a good heart, she isn't one of these empty-headed girls who are only thinking about what to buy next, like Lida Zakanovka. But he doesn't know where he is with her. She keeps changing her mind. And he likes things to be definite. One way or another.

"You can enquire if you like."

"Don't you want to?"

"I think I will not stay very long in London. Maybe just one or two days."

"Then where will you go?"

"My plan is to go to Sheffield."

"Sheffield-where is this?"

"It's in the north. Three hundred kilometres."

Her smile disappears. Her brow wrinkles up.

"I would like very much to stay in London."

"You can stay here. No problem."

"Why d'you want to go to Sheffield?"

He stares in through the window of the restaurant, avoiding her eyes. He decides not to tell her about Vagvaga Riskegipd.

"You know, this Sheffield is very beautiful. One of the most beautiful cities in England."

"Really? In my book it says it is a large industrial town famous for steel-making and cutlery." She looks at him for a moment. "Maybe I will come too."

Why has she removed the orange ribbon from Dog, and taken to wearing it herself? It looked much better on Dog.

"I thought you wanted to stay in London."

"Don't you want me to come?"

He shrugs. "You can come if you like."

"But maybe we could stay in London for a while, to earn some money. Then we can go and look at this Sheffield."

What's the matter with you, Andriy Palenko? You're a man, aren't you? Just say no.

The woman who ran the restaurant looked Andriy and me up and down. She had black hair sc.r.a.ped back from her forehead in a ponytail, a white powdered face, and red-red lips. Why did she put all that make-up on? It looked dire. She tapped on her teeth with a red fingernail. "Yes, we have a vacancy for a kitchen hand, and we need someone presentable for front of house." She looked at me. "Have you done waitressing before?"

"Of course," I lied. "Golden Pear Restaurant. Skovoroda. Kiev." After all, what's so complicated about placing a plate of food on the table?

"Have you got a black skirt and shoes, and a white top?"

"Of course," I lied again. I never used to lie before I came to England. Now it seems I'm quite skilled at it.

It was agreed that we would start tomorrow, working split s.h.i.+fts from eleven till three, and then six till midnight. The pay was four pounds an hour for kitchen hands and double that for front of house, plus a share of tips and service, meals and accommodation provided. She said it all fast-fast, without looking up at us.

"We don't need accommodation," saidAndriy. "We have our own."

"Well, the pay's the same, with accommodation or without. Take it or leave it."

I did a quick calculation in my head.

"We take the job," I said. "Without the accommodation."

He got quite moody when I asked to borrow some money to buy the waitressing clothes. "You have to think capitalist," I said. "See it as an investment." I promised I'd share my money and my extra tips with him. I'd seen a shop with a big sign in the window saying SALE 50% reductions SALE 50% reductions, and I couldn't wait to have a look. I would go in the morning on the way to work.

When we got back to the caravan, there was a metal barrier with a padlock across the entrance to the site, but that was all right because we weren't going anywhere. By then, we were starving hungry. Maria had packed a whole feast for us of her peculiar food. She'd even put in some tins of steak for the dog, but Andriy said that was ridiculous and the dog should go and catch some pigeons and sent him off outside, and Andriy ate the dog's food.

There was an embarra.s.sing moment when I had to go to the toilet, but fortunately it was dark by then. When I had to change into my nightie, that could have been embarra.s.sing too, but Andriy very courteously pretended to be reading one of my books, even though he can't really read English, and when it was his turn to get undressed I pretended to read the book. But I did sneak a look. Mmm. Yes. Definitely more interesting without the Ukrainian trousers.

I stretched out on the bunk which had been Yola's, and he crawled onto the bunk that had been Malta's. We didn't even fold out the double bed, because that would have meant we were going to sleep together. It was so quiet in the warm enclosed s.p.a.ce of the caravan that we could hear each other's breathing. Then I started to wonder what it would be like to sleep together in the double bed. Because really he has very nice hands. Sun-brown, with golden hairs. And arms. And legs. And he is also very gentlemanly, with good manners, just like Mr Brown, who is always saying please and excuse me and pardon. And I liked the polite way he talked to Emanuel and to Toby McKenzie's parents, and even to the dog, and the attentive way he listens to people. Including me. OK, I admit he isn't very educated, but you can see he's no fool. But is he the one the one? When it's your first time, you have to get it right.

I lay listening to his breathing and wondering if he was lying awake listening to mine. Just as I was beginning to drift off to sleep, the dog came back and woke us up by barking at the door. Andriy got up to let him in and gave him a drink of water-slurp slurp slurp-and spread the old bit of blanket from the Land Rover down by the door for him to sleep on. The dog fell asleep almost immediately, whistling and snoring very loudly-sss! hrrr! sss! hrrr!-which made us both laugh. After that, I didn't fall asleep for ages. My heart just wouldn't slow down. I kept thinking of all the things that had happened to me since I left home, and about him, lying so close in the dark, and wondering what he was thinking.

"Andriy. Are you asleep?"

"No. Are you?"

"No."

"We'd better try to get some sleep. It'll be hard work tomorrow."

"OK."

In the darkness, I could hear the faraway sound of the city, a restless throbbing hum that is never still, like when you hold a sh.e.l.l to your ear and hear the sound of the sea, even though you know it's just the blood rus.h.i.+ng around inside your own head.

"Andriy. Are you asleep yet?"

"No."

"Tell me about this Sheffield."

"You know, this Sheffield is one of the most beautiful cities in England. Maybe in the whole world. But not many people know this."

"What is it like?"

"It is entirely built of white stone with magnificent domes and towers. And it is set on a hill. So you can see it from a long distance away-it looks as though it is s.h.i.+mmering and glimmering in the light as you approach."

"Like the Lavra monastery in Kiev?"

"A bit like that, yes. Go to sleep now."

I AM DOG I AM BAD DOG I RUN MY MAN EATS DOG-FOOD GO RUN CATCH PIGEON HE SAYS I RUN I COME TO MANY-PIGEON PLACE EVERYWHERE PIGEON PIGEON PIGEON I JUMP I CATCH PIGEON I EAT STRINGY MEAT MOUTH FULL OF FEATHERS NO GOOD HERE IS MEAT SMELL GOOD MAN FOOD MAN SITS ON BENCH EATS BREAD WITH MEAT HE PUTS BREAD AND MEAT ON BENCH I JUMP I CATCH I EAT BAD DOG SAYS THE MAN I RUN I AM BAD DOG I AM DOG I AM DOG I AM BAD DOG I RUN MY MAN EATS DOG-FOOD GO RUN CATCH PIGEON HE SAYS I RUN I COME TO MANY-PIGEON PLACE EVERYWHERE PIGEON PIGEON PIGEON I JUMP I CATCH PIGEON I EAT STRINGY MEAT MOUTH FULL OF FEATHERS NO GOOD HERE IS MEAT SMELL GOOD MAN FOOD MAN SITS ON BENCH EATS BREAD WITH MEAT HE PUTS BREAD AND MEAT ON BENCH I JUMP I CATCH I EAT BAD DOG SAYS THE MAN I RUN I AM BAD DOG I AM DOG.

Kitchen hand! How have you allowed this to happen, Andriy Palenko? Your definite plan was to drop them both off in London, then go on to Sheffield. Now suddenly you are not just kitchen hand, but kitchen arms, legs, shoulders, back, feet, etc. The feet are the worst. If the floor wasn't so greasy you could go barefoot. Yes, when you get your first week's pay, you'll have to get some of those s.p.a.cecraft-style trainers.

During the split in their s.h.i.+ft they just wandered around the streets, which was not intelligent because by the time the afternoon s.h.i.+ft starts their feet are already aching. The heat is intense in the kitchen, and the atmosphere frenetic. Do this! Fetch that! Faster! Faster! All the time your hands are wet and slimy from the strong detergent, your sleeves soaked, your feet skidding on the slippery floor, and each breath taking in a lungful of steam and grease.

The chef, Gilbert, is an Australian, a big beefy man with a terrible temper, but a magician in the kitchen, wielding the big knives, chopping and slicing like a wizard. This cooking business-Andriy had always thought of it as women's work, but seeing Gilbert go at a piece of meat with a blade, then fling it in a smoking pan with a hiss of burning-that looks quite interesting. Maybe he will even learn something. Gilbert has two a.s.sistants who are from Spain-or maybe Colombia-who fly around at Gilbert's command, and a team of choppers, stirrers and a.s.semblers. And there is Dora, the only woman in the kitchen, who does desserts. Then there are the kitchen hands-himself and Huan-who clear and sc.r.a.pe the plates, wash the dishes, mop up spillages, and hump big sacks of stuff when the others command-really it's like being a slave with ten masters, of whom Dora, who is maybe Croatian or Montenegran, and no beauty, is the worst.

As the evening wears on there is less shouting from Gilbert and more shrieking from Dora. More dirty plates to clean. More soap and steam. He can already feel an itchy rash developing between his fingers. At least on the coalface you could set your own pace. When Gilbert slips outside for a cigarette the Colombians sometimes let him taste one of the special dishes, but after a while his gut aches as much as the rest of his body, and all he wants is to sit down near the open back door, where occasionally a slight breeze stirs the soupy air.

Sometimes, as the double doors swing open, he catches a glimpse of Irina in the dining room gliding from table to table-she has been put to serving drinks, so she seldom comes into the kitchen. She's done her hair in two plaits, which makes her look even younger, like a voluptuous schoolgirl in her black and white uniform. You can see the eyes of the men following her as she moves around the room. Who is she smiling at like that? Why is her blouse so low-cut? Why did she find it necessary to buy such a short skirt?

When she bends over to pour a drink you can see...no, not quite. Look at the way that man is staring at her.

Long after the chefs and waiting staff have gone home, the kitchen hands still have to clear up and mop the floor and get everything straight for the next day. Irina waits in the dining room, sitting on one chair with her feet up on another, picking at a dish the Colombians prepared for her.

It is almost one o'clock by the time they can go. The night is still and starry. Andriy breathes in huge gulps of the cool smoke-tainted air until he feels quite dizzy. They still have a good half hour's walk back to the caravan. He walks, putting one foot in front of the other, like a robot. Robot. The word means 'work' in Russian. That's what he is. A machine that works.

"Not so fast, Andriy."

He realises she's struggling to keep up with him.

"Sorry."

"Look, Andriy. This is for you. I can pay you back what I borrowed."

She reaches down into the opening of that absurdly low-cut blouse and pulls out a rolled-up twenty-pound note.

"Where did you get this?"

"A man gave it to me. A customer."

"Why?"

"I don't know why. He just did. I was pouring his drink."

"I saw him staring down into your blouse. You look like a tart in those clothes."

"No, I don't. I look like a waitress. Don't be so stupid, Andriy."

"Keep your money. I don't want it."

"No, you take it. It's for you. What I borrowed. Why are you being like this?"

"I said I don't want it."