Marina Lewycka - Two Caravans

She pointed out of the window. Instead of the farmer’s Land Rover, a huge black mafia-machine was pulling up at the bottom of the field. My heart thumped. It was like a fist punching my chest. The car door swung open, and a bulky black-clad figure emerged. Even at that distance I recognised him.

Vulk looked around, then he started walking clumsily up the field, treading on the clumps of strawberries. I didn’t stop to think. I jumped up and dashed out of the door without looking behind me. I slipped through the gap in the hedge into the copse. My heart was thumping away. Keeping my head down, I crept along the other side of the hedge, away from the caravan and back into a thicket of trees. Behind a dense evergreen bush I crouched down and listened. I could hear voices, men’s and women’s, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The blood was beating so loud inside my head I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. It was like one of those bad dreams where the beating of your own heart wakes you up. Thump thump. I dug my nails into my palms, but the pain was real.

After a while, Yola came out into the field and called my name.

“Irina? Irina? Come, girl, there is a handsome-man visitor for you.”

That woman is so dire. Why doesn’t she go off with Vulk herself if she likes him so much? He’s probably just her type. I sat motionless, holding onto my breath, until Yola gave up and went back to the caravan. Then I let my breath out. But still I sat tight. This was a waiting game between us, him and me. On a branch, a few inches from my nose, a spider was spinning its web, working away furiously. I watched as it dropped down onto a lower twig, then clambered back up its silky ladder, heaving its fat body on its spidery little legs. Then it sat in the centre of its web and waited for its prey to pull at the threads.

After some time I heard Vulk’s voice. He was by the hedge. He started calling, “Little flower! Come, little flower! Come!”

That sludgy voice. My stomach turned. I couldn’t see from my hiding place, but I could imagine the ponytail flicking from side to side.

“Come! Come!”

I breathed in and held my breath. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure he must be able to hear it as he wandered up and down beside the hedge, his footsteps heavy on the ground. Crunch crunch. “Little flower! Little flower!”

Then a horrible familiar smell hit my nostrils. He had lit a cigar. He must be standing in the field by the hedge, smoking. Puff. Stink. I couldn’t see him but I could smell him nearby. My whole body was tense, my breathing fast and shallow, like when you’re trying to run in a nightmare but your limbs are locked. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. The light was fading from the sky. After a while the smell of the cigar faded, too. Was it safe to come out? I was just about to move when I heard voices again. He was back at the caravan. I strained my ears. I couldn’t catch what he said, but I heard Yola’s vulgar laugh, then after another eternity the sound I’d been waiting for-the engine of the mafia-machine starting up.

The gate closed with a clack , and the engine noise dissipated into the stillness.

It was twilight when I finally dared to emerge from my hiding place, back into the brightness of the caravan.

“Oh, here you are!” cried Marta. “I was so worried.”

“Here you are!” Yola’s voice had a scolding edge. She looked me up and down, and winked in a vulgar way. “You hev secret lower.” She said it in English, for the benefit of the Chinese girls. “Good-looking man looking for you.”

“Not so good-looking.” I wrinkled my nose.

The Chinese girls laughed.

“Good-looking enough,” said Yola. “Not a baldie. Plenty good hairs.”

“Too long. Looks like woman hairs,” said Chinese Girl One. “Like Toh-mah.” They both giggled like mad.

“He had flowers,” said Yola.

“Flowers? What for?” The thought of him bringing me flowers made me feel sick.

“A flower in hand for you. Hee hee.” Chinese Girl Two cupped her chin in her hands laughing with glee. “Pink flower. Pink. Flower of love.” As though pink would make all the difference. They all thought it was a big joke.

“I do not want those flowers,” I said nonchalantly. I was still elated at my escape, and the last thing I wanted was to remember that terrifying journey, the cold chips, the nausea, the fear. “The man is not only old, but he is rather ugly, with minimum culture.”

“We are all God’s creatures,” said Marta reproachfully. I suppose no one has ever given her flowers, on account of her large nose. She is a very kind person, but sometimes I think she takes her religion too far.

Andriy has drunk at least eight cans of lager, and now he has his back towards the field and is concentrating on the pleasurable sensation of aiming a warm torrent of piss at a stubborn nettle growing out of the hedge. It wavers under the stream, but bounces back. He takes aim and hits it again. It bends but doesn’t break. Its sharp leaves glisten cheekily as he zips up his fly. I’ll be back to get you later, he promises the dogged little plant.

As he returns towards the caravan in the fading illusory dusk, his eyes light on a vision of incredible beauty. Is he drunk or dreaming? Generously proportioned, sensuously curved, beautiful yet mysterious, ferocious yet pliant, monstrous yet perfectly crafted. He stretches out his hand, his fingers trembling to touch. Yes, she is real. He strokes the gleaming body of black and chrome. He walks around her. Yes, from every angle, she is perfect.

And inside? He tries the passenger door. It is not locked. He climbs in, clambers across to the driver’s seat, sinks into the soft but firm tobacco-fragrant leather. What height. What power. He fondles the leather-cased steering wheel. He runs his hands over the dashboard. What an array of controls. He depresses the clutch. He shifts through all the gears. The transmission glides like butter. He tries out the brake and accelerator pedals. They are firm but yielding. He searches for the ignition key. It is not there. He tries the glove compartment. He feels inside. Something is there-something bulky and cold. Not keys. A gun. Devil’s bum!

He takes it out, holds it, turns it over in his hands. His fingers close around it. Its menace is palpable. He opens it up-why are there only five bullets in the barrel? What happened to the sixth? Not quite knowing why, he takes the gun and slips it into the pocket of his trousers. The weight pulls against his belt. He likes the feeling of its presence, close to him but out of sight. He climbs down from the vehicle and quietly closes the door.

By the time he gets back to the bonfire, he finds that all the women have gone inside. Emanuel is asleep. Vitaly has disappeared. Tomasz is still singing sadly to himself. He decides to have one more go at that wretched nettle before turning in for the night. He is standing in the shadow between the hedge and the men’s caravan when he sees the owner of the black four-by-four come down the field and climb into the driver’s seat. Even in the dusky light, Andriy can see that he is an unprepossessing man. What a waste. And then there’s the little matter of the gun-what does he need a gun for?

The events that follow take place so quickly, and in such a confusion of dazzle and darkness and too much lager, that afterwards, he is never quite sure exactly what happened.

Just as the twilight swallows up the tail-lights of the four-by-four, the sound of another engine rips through the stillness of the valley. At first he thinks it is the farmer’s Land Rover running rough, but the sound is louder, deeper, with an exciting throbbing under-beat. He steps out, hoping to catch a glimpse as it races by. But the engine stops at the gate, the gate swings open, and in roars the red Ferrari, hood down, headlights blazing. He feels his head start to spin. Twice in one night. This must be a dream. And then out of the Ferrari steps the blonde.