Echoes From a Distant Land (37 page)

‘You do,' she responded, ‘otherwise you wouldn't know it was the May birthstone.'

‘I don't believe in any of that bullshit.'

‘What
do
you believe in?' she asked. ‘If anything.'

‘I believe in the struggle of the working classes.'

‘What does that mean? Exactly.'

‘It doesn't surprise me you don't know. You're one of the moneyed class. You have servants you couldn't give a shit about, with first names you don't know. You have a big house in town and a holiday house in at least one of the counties. Your father owns factories and pays the workers shit, and your mother does charity work for the poor who wouldn't
be
so poor if they got a decent wage in the first place.'

‘What makes you think you know anything about my family?'

‘I can tell by the way I shocked you with my use of the old-English word
fuck
.'

‘You didn't shock me at all, just confirmed my low opinion of Cambridge men.'

‘I'm not a Cambridge man, I'm proud to say.'

‘I'm sure Cambridge would be pleased to hear that.'

He shrugged.

‘Then what are you, if I may ask?'

‘I'm an artist.'

‘Really? What kind of artist?'

‘A photographer.'

‘Hmmph, I'm not sure photography qualifies as art.'

Fiona joined them and whisked Emerald away to help her make tea.

During the course of the afternoon, Emerald caught sight of Raph in deep discussion with others among Laurence's group of friends. He seemed very intense. He didn't seek her out and she certainly had no intention of renewing her conversation with him.

Fiona came to her late in the afternoon to excitedly whisper that a young man named Lance had invited her to a nearby pub to listen to some music. She asked Emerald to go with her.

‘What about Michael?' Emerald asked.

‘It's only an outing,' she said defensively. ‘Anyway, it's not as if Michael and I are engaged or anything. Won't you come?' she pleaded.

Emerald didn't want to be left alone with the crowd of Cambridge men, and agreed.

She went inside to collect her coat.

Raph stopped her in the hall.

‘It
is
art, you know,' he said. ‘Photography, I mean.'

He surprised her by his conciliatory tone, but she wasn't about to drop her guard. ‘If you say so,' she said.

‘I'd like to prove it to you.'

‘Oh? How is that possible?'

‘I'll take you to an exhibition by one of England's best photographers.'

‘You must be joking,' she said, and continued out of the house with her coat over her arm.

Fiona was in the garden, gaining the necessary assurances from her brother that he would say not a word to her parents about her outing. While she waited in the garden, a few of the young Cambridge men passed. They were leaving. Raph was among them.

‘Day after tomorrow,' he said, barely pausing as he walked past her to the gate.

‘I beg your pardon?' Emerald said.

‘You heard. Day after tomorrow. Friday.'

‘If you think I would go anywhere with you, after what —'

‘Around four,' he added, then was gone.

 

Fiona and Lance led Emerald and four of the Cambridge men across the Hart Street Bridge to the Red Lion Hotel — a solid brick building of three storeys with several racy little sports cars parked outside its red-brick portico. From the street they could hear the sound of drums and some kind of reedy flute. It wasn't jazz or jitterbug music, but it had a compelling, almost savage rhythm.

They followed the sound down a long hall. The hotel's dining room had tables packed together around a tiny dance floor and a small bandstand where two black men were pounding large drums and another was playing the flute. A fourth black man, bare-chested and wearing a short leather skirt, was leaping high in the air, his black and white fur leggings flailing with every kick. His female partner was wearing a colourful loose-fitting cotton blouse and a thick grass skirt, which bounced as she gyrated her hips in time with the beat.

Emerald sat with Fiona and Lance while the others either stood against the wall or found what seats remained. She was fascinated by the spectacle. She'd been to many dances and loved the jitterbug and the bop, but this was like nothing she'd ever seen or heard before. The drums, which she now noted had two different tones, beat a constant accompaniment to the flute, which carried the melody. At first it was the melody that carried her along with the dancers as they leaped and gyrated, until she realised it was the unremitting drums that drove them. As when she heard the compelling beat of train wheels on a track, her heart, her mind, fell into tempo with the incessant rhythm of the drums. The more she listened to their beat, the more she was spirited away to whatever dark country they'd come from.

Suddenly, and with a final booming crescendo of drums, the music stopped.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd before a roar of applause went up. Cheering and whistling, the crowd demanded more, Emerald as much a part of it as anyone.

The sweating dancers smiled; and the drums began again.

This time the beat was slower, like a heartbeat, and sensual. The dancers came together with snaking arms and swaying movements like trees in the wind. The flute played in and around them, vying with the drums.

As the dance progressed it was obvious it was a story of seduction. The black man thrust his hips forwards and the woman retreated. He tried again and again with the same result until a subtle shift in the beat changed their rhythm and now they were synchronised: he thrusting and she receiving him. The couple were almost making love on the dance floor.

The air was thick with smoke in the crowded room. Emerald's lips were dry. She couldn't swallow. Someone should open a window, she thought. She needed a drink, but couldn't take her eyes from the performers. It was the most thrilling and exciting dance spectacle she'd ever seen.

When the group headed home across the bridge an hour later, they hardly spoke.

The drums had ended, but they remained inside Emerald's head; even while looking down into the swift dark waters of the Thames, she could feel their surge moving the blood through her veins in the same beat.

‘Where do the dancers come from?' someone asked.

‘I think it's the Belgian Congo,' another answered.

Emerald had no idea where the Belgian Congo was. She'd never been interested in Africa and, although her mother had told her she'd been born there, it seldom came up in conversation. On one of her weekend visits she'd asked her father about his life in Africa and he became annoyed. She never raised it again.

She decided she should know more about her country of birth. The dancers and their music had sparked something within her that needed to be explored.

On Thursday, Peter and Michael arrived from Oxford. They were staying in a guest house rented by the rowing club, but Fiona and Emerald had invited them to dinner. The cook had done most of the work and gone home, and Laurence was out with his friends, leaving the house to the two girls.

They took the boys, who had brought two bottles of lager and a bottle of Riesling for the occasion, into the sitting room. The drinks were opened and Fiona passed the glasses around.

‘Are you sure you won't have a glass of wine, Em?' Fiona asked her. ‘It's really quite refreshing.'

‘Go on,' Michael said. ‘You only live once.'

‘Just a half then,' Emerald conceded.

Fiona poured. It tasted awful, but she said it was nice.

Over dinner, talk turned to the boat races. The two young men would be in training on the following day, but the girls said they would go to watch them in their race on Saturday.

The dinner proceeded well. While the men drank the beer, Fiona poured herself a third glass of wine. Emerald sat on her half-glass and declined any refills.

Michael and Fiona, who had begun to giggle, went searching for a bottle of port, while Peter suggested he and Emerald go out into the garden.

The evening was warm. They strolled to the little vine-covered rotunda at the bottom of the garden. She still had most of the half-glass of Riesling in her hand. A cricket chirped from the shrubbery.

‘Are you still angry with me?' he asked when they'd taken a seat.

The night air was still and the half-moon ambled among the drifting clouds. She placed her glass on the seat beside her.

‘No.'

‘I'm pleased,' he said, and turned towards her to slide an arm over her shoulders. His breath was warm and beery on her cheek.

Another cricket chimed in.

He shifted his position and slipped his arm further around her shoulders until his hand rested gently on her breast. ‘You're a wonderful girl, Emma,' he whispered. ‘A beautiful girl.'

After an initial rush of alarm at his incursion, she examined her feelings more calmly. It was a curious and pleasant sensation. There was something flattering about his interest in her, quite aside from the warm glow emanating from the pit of her stomach to where his hand now lay more resolutely on her breast. She could no longer pretend not to notice.

‘Emerald,' he whispered. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on her cotton blouse.

He covered her mouth with his and thrust his tongue between her lips. The beer taste flooded into her mouth; she pushed him away. She had an almost unbearable urge to spit.

‘Stop that!' she said.

‘But you say I don't show you how I feel, and now, when I do —'

All she wanted was a tumbler of water to freshen her mouth. ‘I think we should go in.'

‘But Emma …'

‘I just want to go,' she said.

Emerald got to her feet and walked briskly to the back door. Peter followed.

‘Emma,' he said. ‘I think we should wait.'

Fiona was not in the kitchen where she'd left her.

‘Fiona?'

They were not in the sitting room either.

She heard a loud thud from their shared bedroom. Alarmed, she went to the door and flung it open.

‘Fiona!' Emerald said, looking from her to Michael and back again. The blood rushed to her face.

Fiona was in one of the single beds, the covers drawn up to her nose. Michael was sitting on the side of the bed, searching on the floor for his trousers.

‘Emma,' Peter said, touching her on the arm. ‘Come on. Let's wait outside.'

Outside in the kitchen, Emerald sat, stunned. She and Fiona had often talked about what they wanted to do with their boyfriends, but it had always been just talk. She had no idea Fiona was prepared to go all the way.

Peter tried to calm her by taking her hand and patting it, but she withdrew it. She wanted nothing to do with him or anyone else at that moment. She was mortified.

Fiona came into the kitchen, but Michael stayed in the doorway.

‘C'mon, Pete,' he said. ‘Let's go.'

Peter looked helplessly at Emerald. ‘See you Saturday?' he asked.

Emerald didn't answer, and he followed Michael to the door.

Tears welled in Emerald's eyes. She didn't know why — surely her mother couldn't be right about her not being old enough to handle sex. But she certainly felt a ludicrously childish longing for her own room and her own bed.

After a few minutes Fiona asked if there was anything she needed.

‘I'm quite all right,' she said, and took the glasses to the sink and began washing them.

‘Em,' Fiona said. ‘I thought you wanted to do it too. I thought that was why you went out into the garden with Peter.'

In spite of her discomfort, Emerald had an urge to know what had happened, but she couldn't form the question without appearing voyeuristic. It wasn't the details she needed, but the process of seduction that interested her. How did Fiona get to the situation where she could allow Michael to do … that?

She turned from the sink. ‘What happened, Fiona?' she asked.

‘Oh, that Michael. He's never satisfied.' Her voice was harsh, but she was smiling.

‘Did he … Did you do it?'

‘For goodness' sake, Em,' she said. ‘There's more than one way to please a boy.'

Several thoughts ran through Emerald's mind. She'd heard things whispered among her friends about what boys liked. She felt a guilty fascination. ‘I don't understand.'

Fiona sighed. ‘Look,' she said. ‘At first we'd play around a little and I used my hand, and it was all done. But that time when we left you at the flower show, he wanted to go all the way.' She shrugged. ‘So it's been like that.'

Emerald swallowed: her kiss with Peter had been such an innocent act in comparison. She felt foolishly juvenile. Even his fumbling in the rotunda tonight had hardly been seductive. She tried to imagine what might have happened if she had allowed things to progress. She had enjoyed his hand on her for a time before the smell and taste of the beer spoiled it. She wondered how she might feel about Peter doing it at another time. Or how would she feel if it happened with someone else? Someone more interesting, and without beer breath.

Someone like Raph.

 

It was Friday.

Emerald hadn't really forgotten Raph's promise to take her to the photographic exhibition, but when he arrived just after four, she feigned surprise and indifference.

He looked at her, sucked the inside of his cheek and nodded.

‘You're not going to go on with all that nonsense, are you?' he said.

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' she countered.

‘All that bullshit where you pretend to be disinterested, but at the same time you've put on a sexy dress and done your hair.'

‘I do wish you wouldn't swear so. It's very crude.'

‘It's the only way you Regent's Park types can get a real education.'

She was about to correct him and say
Mayfair
, but held it back.

‘Well, I'm sure I don't need that kind of education, thank you very much.'

He laughed. It was quite disarming.

‘Have it your way, Emerald with the beautiful green eyes. Now … are you coming, or not?'

She could see herself spinning on her heel and slamming the door in his face, but she suddenly wanted to go with him very much.

‘What is this exhibition all about?' she sniffed.

‘You'll have to come along to find out, won't you? But if you do come, I promise it will change your perception of art. You can have your van Goghs and Turners: Ivanof is a real-world artist. When you see something that is real, unlike your paintings, where everything is intended to trick the eye, you'll be amazed at what you've missed in real life. Until a brilliant photographer makes you see the world — really see it — you don't have a clue. And after he shows you, you can never see that object in the same way ever again.'

As he spoke she watched his expression change. His piercing eyes softened and the tight line of his jaw relaxed, adding a fullness to his mouth she'd previously not noticed. Even his voice, which had appeared strident at their first meeting, had become more rounded and expressive. He was still intense, but now she could see the passion that impelled him.

‘So what are you going to do, Miss Emerald Eyes? Do you want to remain stuck with your views of the world, or are you brave enough to let me challenge them?'

At that moment she thought Raph could have convinced her the fiery depths of hell were worth a visit. She took a breath. ‘Very well,' she said, and followed him to the front gate.

 

‘I didn't know the exhibition was in Oxford,' Emerald said above the wind that had almost torn her hat out of her hand, and now flung her hair in every direction.

‘Would it have made any difference?' he said, his voice raised to be heard over the wind.

‘Well, for one thing, I would have worn a hat more suitable for a spin in a … a … What did you say it's called?'

‘It's an MG TA. Made right here near Oxford. And in case you're interested, it's nearly 1300cc, overhead cams, and fifty horsepower.' He turned to her and smiled. ‘Are you impressed?'

‘I'll say,' she said, grinning.

Raph was a different person when he wasn't baiting her.

‘How long have you owned it?' she called.

‘I don't. Not yet. It's my brother Kelvin's. I'm paying it off. He left it with me when he went away to America.'

‘I see.'

She couldn't imagine not immediately owning something that she wanted. All her life, even after her parents' divorce and before her mother's remarriage, she'd never wanted for anything. She was starting to realise the world was a more complex place than what she'd seen. Until she heard Goran Papasov's story, she'd had no idea of the prejudices levelled at the gypsies, nor the horrors of their life on the continent during the war. And until she met Raph, and he challenged her about it, she'd never given a thought to the poor in her own country.

She wondered about being the wife of a working-class man. She would have to be careful of her spending. No spontaneous trips to Harrods for a new outfit; no traipsing off to the Cotswolds for the summer.

She looked at Raph hunched over the wheel, the wind tearing at his rakish tartan scarf and flinging his untamed blond hair here and there, and wondered what it would be like to live in his world.

 

Raph led Emerald into the temporarily rearranged dining room of the Oxford Hounds hotel, where a small group of enthusiasts, some sipping champagne, strolled from one large photograph to another.

Emerald wondered aloud whether all the cultural events west of London were confined to pubs: surely there were ample proper exhibition spaces elsewhere in that part of England to accommodate them.

‘It saves on costs,' was Raph's explanation. ‘And Alexi can't be too choosy. It's not easy being a Russian in the west these days; but the publican's sympathetic.'

‘Sympathetic to what?'

‘To the cause.'

‘What cause?'

‘The socialist cause, of course,' he said.

‘Socialist? You mean communism?' Her stepfather had often been apoplectic upon reading any reference to communism in
The Times.
‘Bloody reds!' he'd say. ‘We should have let Hitler wipe them all out in the war.'

‘No,' he said, patiently. ‘I mean socialism. There
is
a difference, you know.'

She had expected derision, so his only slightly patronising words disarmed her. Now she wanted to know more, but they were interrupted by a huge man who came to Raph and swept him into a bearhug.

‘Raphael!' he boomed. ‘My friend. It is good to see you again.'

‘Jesus, Alexi!' Raph spluttered as he broke the embrace. ‘At least have a shave if you're going to kiss me, will you?'

‘And look, you have found yourself a beautiful English rose,' the big man said, eyeing Emerald.

‘Emerald, this is Alexi Ivanof,' he said.

‘Wonderful,' Alexi said. ‘She is beautiful.' He raised his hand to the waitress. ‘Drinks! Over here,
mademoiselle
.'

The waitress arrived with a tray of champagne flutes.

Alexi handed them each a glass. ‘A toast,' he said. ‘To the revolution. No … fuck that.' He laughed — a booming sound that filled the bare room. ‘To the success of my exhibition.'

They clinked glasses.

Alexi drained his in a single gulp and called for another, forcing fresh glasses into their free hands when the tray arrived.

‘Now, to the two of you. A happy couple.'

Raph shrugged and Emerald smiled.

‘Raph tells me you're from Russia,' Emerald said.

‘Russia, no. We call it Belarus. But me, I'm from everywhere.'

‘Alexis claims he knows a dozen languages,' Raph said.

‘That's me. I can talk bullshit in too many tongues.'

‘Really,' Emerald said. ‘Then let me test you.' She tapped her index finger against her bottom lip, trying to recall the word the gypsy used. ‘Let me see, yes: what does
recha
mean?'

‘Ah! That one too easy. From my home in Belarus.
Recha
, it means vibrate.'

‘Vibrate?' Emerald tried to recall the context of the fortune-teller's message.

Alexi again downed the champagne. ‘No,' he added. ‘Better I say, echo. Yes, echo.'

He then disappeared to attend to a prospective buyer.

She replayed the gypsy's words again. She'd talked about black and white babies. Now echoes. It didn't make sense. She'd simply been swindled out of her two bob.

‘How do you know Alexi?' she asked Raph, putting the matter from her mind.

‘We spent time together in gaol.'