Street.
* * *
It was nearly ten o’clock when the phone rang and I had long since fallen asleep in my armchair. I almost forgot I had a telephone, it went so rarely, and I jumped with fright at the unfamiliar sound. Perhaps it’s Natalya, I thought, calling to tell me about London. Then I heard Greek words. A woman, but she didn’t sound Greek.
“ Kyria Antigone?”
“This is she.”
“I am Mod. Nikitas’ wife.” Before she went any further I had already fantasised that she would ask me to stay, that Nikitas needed me, that they had a room ready for the children’s grandmother. Then the news came out quickly. My son was dead. All these years when I thought I’d lost him, he was actually within reach. But now he was gone.
I stayed awake all night, pacing the small living room, trying to make a plan. I had no right to mourn, but I wept and raged. I smoked cigarette after cigarette and hit my fist against the table, until the cat hid under the bed. How had I been so stupid to wait until he was no longer there? By the time dawn arrived, I had made my decision. I had waited far too long. On the metro, a young woman gave up her seat so I could sit down and I spotted my reflection in the dark windows of the rattling train. What I saw was a skinny old Russian woman in a brown fur hat and mohair shawl, clutching an empty shopping bag from habit – in the old days you never knew what you might find and we always went out prepared to join a queue or snap up an opportunity. I got off at Arbat and walked steadily, so as not to slip on the ice.
I arrived in Leontiefsky Lane at nine o’clock and waited by the tall gate of the Greek Embassy and Consulate. It was not a place I had ever wanted to visit and, for most of the time I’d been in Moscow, this sentiment was perfectly reciprocated by those on the other side of the railings. A Greek communist was persona non grata for officials and diplomats. By the time the prejudices fizzled out in the 1980s, it was too late for reconciliation. I had made my decisions long before. I watched a caretaker inside the railings slowly sweeping the snow in the courtyard. When he stopped for a cigarette, he looked at me, sized me up and then came over, speaking in accented Russian.
“If you’re wanting the consulate, Grandmother, it doesn’t open till ten.”
“I need a visa for Greece. I must have it today,” I replied in Greek and he moved closer.
“Where were you born?” he asked, speaking his native Greek. “If you’re Pontian, you need proof of your origins and then it’s at least ten working days.” When I told him I was born in Athens, he said then I wouldn’t need a visa.
“I lost my Greek citizenship long before you were born,” I told him. “Along with my home and the right to return. I will travel with the only passport I have, which is Russian.”
“Ah, a political,” he said, looking at me with mild curiosity . “Well, that’s all long gone now. We don’t see your kind these days. I thought most of you went back years ago.” What with the cold, the sleepless night and the thoughts that were filling my empty stomach with adrenaline, I didn’t feel too well. Sometimes my heart jumped about, speeding up and missing beats, and it was starting to play its disconcerting games.
“Young man, is there somewhere I can sit down? I’m a little weak.”
They were kind to me inside the consular building, bringing me a glass of water and some sweet coffee with a sesame-covered koulouráki , like my parents had at breakfast. I told them my son had died and they knew Nikitas’ work. They said, “A highly respected journalist. Condolences.” The Consul said he could arrange a temporary visa within the day, and then I heard them whispering in the next room.
A foreign country
M AUD
After the friends and relations drifted away I took a blanket up to the terrace and lay down on one of the old wicker recliners that were beginning to disintegrate,
* * *
It was nearly ten o’clock when the phone rang and I had long since fallen asleep in my armchair. I almost forgot I had a telephone, it went so rarely, and I jumped with fright at the unfamiliar sound. Perhaps it’s Natalya, I thought, calling to tell me about London. Then I heard Greek words. A woman, but she didn’t sound Greek.
“ Kyria Antigone?”
“This is she.”
“I am Mod. Nikitas’ wife.” Before she went any further I had already fantasised that she would ask me to stay, that Nikitas needed me, that they had a room ready for the children’s grandmother. Then the news came out quickly. My son was dead. All these years when I thought I’d lost him, he was actually within reach. But now he was gone.
I stayed awake all night, pacing the small living room, trying to make a plan. I had no right to mourn, but I wept and raged. I smoked cigarette after cigarette and hit my fist against the table, until the cat hid under the bed. How had I been so stupid to wait until he was no longer there? By the time dawn arrived, I had made my decision. I had waited far too long. On the metro, a young woman gave up her seat so I could sit down and I spotted my reflection in the dark windows of the rattling train. What I saw was a skinny old Russian woman in a brown fur hat and mohair shawl, clutching an empty shopping bag from habit – in the old days you never knew what you might find and we always went out prepared to join a queue or snap up an opportunity. I got off at Arbat and walked steadily, so as not to slip on the ice.
I arrived in Leontiefsky Lane at nine o’clock and waited by the tall gate of the Greek Embassy and Consulate. It was not a place I had ever wanted to visit and, for most of the time I’d been in Moscow, this sentiment was perfectly reciprocated by those on the other side of the railings. A Greek communist was persona non grata for officials and diplomats. By the time the prejudices fizzled out in the 1980s, it was too late for reconciliation. I had made my decisions long before. I watched a caretaker inside the railings slowly sweeping the snow in the courtyard. When he stopped for a cigarette, he looked at me, sized me up and then came over, speaking in accented Russian.
“If you’re wanting the consulate, Grandmother, it doesn’t open till ten.”
“I need a visa for Greece. I must have it today,” I replied in Greek and he moved closer.
“Where were you born?” he asked, speaking his native Greek. “If you’re Pontian, you need proof of your origins and then it’s at least ten working days.” When I told him I was born in Athens, he said then I wouldn’t need a visa.
“I lost my Greek citizenship long before you were born,” I told him. “Along with my home and the right to return. I will travel with the only passport I have, which is Russian.”
“Ah, a political,” he said, looking at me with mild curiosity . “Well, that’s all long gone now. We don’t see your kind these days. I thought most of you went back years ago.” What with the cold, the sleepless night and the thoughts that were filling my empty stomach with adrenaline, I didn’t feel too well. Sometimes my heart jumped about, speeding up and missing beats, and it was starting to play its disconcerting games.
“Young man, is there somewhere I can sit down? I’m a little weak.”
They were kind to me inside the consular building, bringing me a glass of water and some sweet coffee with a sesame-covered koulouráki , like my parents had at breakfast. I told them my son had died and they knew Nikitas’ work. They said, “A highly respected journalist. Condolences.” The Consul said he could arrange a temporary visa within the day, and then I heard them whispering in the next room.
A foreign country
M AUD
After the friends and relations drifted away I took a blanket up to the terrace and lay down on one of the old wicker recliners that were beginning to disintegrate,
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