Marina Lewycka - A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian

“Oh, no trouble. It’s all right now. All fixed.” He smiles his cute chipped-tooth smile.

“But Stanislav, can’t you persuade your mother it would be better to have a smaller car that’s more reliable than this big shiny monster that costs a fortune to run? My father hasn’t got that much money, you know.”

“Oh, it’s OK now. It’s a very nice car.”

“But wouldn’t you have been better off with something more reliable, like a Ford Fiesta?”

“Oh, Ford Fiesta is not a good car. You know, when we were coming here on the motorway we saw a terrible accident between a Ford Fiesta and a Jaguar, and the Ford Fiesta was quite crushed underneath the Jaguar. So you see the bigger car is much better.”

Is he serious?

“But Stanislav, my father can’t afford a big car.”

“Oh, I think he can.” Sweet smile. “He has enough money. He gave Anna some money, didn’t he?” The spectacles slip down his nose. He pushes them back, and looks up at me, meeting my eyes with a cool stare. Maybe not such a good boy.

“Yes, but…” What can I say? “…that’s up to him.”

“Exactly so.”

There are quick footsteps on the stairs and Valentina bursts into the bedroom. She chides Stanislav for talking to me. “Stop talk this bad-news peeping no-tits crow.” She has forgotten that I speak Ukrainian, or she doesn’t care.

“No matter, Valentina,” I say. “It’s you I want to talk to. Shall we go downstairs?”

She follows me down into the kitchen. Stanislav comes down too, but Valentina sends him into the next room where Pappa is explaining at length to Mike about the comparative safety features of different braking systems, stubbornly avoiding reference to the specific problems of the Rover, while Mike is striving against the odds to steer the conversation in this direction.

“Why you want for talk?” Valentina positions herself opposite me and a little too dose. Her lipstick is an angry red smudge around the edges of her mouth.

“I think you know why, Valentina.”

“Know? Why I know?”

I had planned a rational discussion, a cool unfolding of logical arguments which would end up in a gracious admission of guilt on her part, a smiling, rueful acceptance that things would have to change. But all I feel is a burning, blinding rage and my arguments desert me. Blood beats in my head.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” I have slipped into the mongrel language, half-English half-Ukrainian, fluent and snappy.

“Ah-shamed! Ah-shamed!” she snorts. “You shame. No me shame. Why you no visit you mamma grave? Why you no crying, bringing flower? Why you making trouble here?”

The thought of my mother lying neglected in the cold ground while this usurper lords it in her kitchen drives me to a new pitch of fury.

“Don’t dare to talk about my mother. Don’t even say her name with your filthy-talking boil-in-the-baggage mouth!”

“You mother die. Now you father marry me. You no like. You make trouble. I understand. I no stupid.”

She speaks the mongrel language too. We snarl at each other like mongrels.

“Valentina, why are you driving around in two cars, when my father doesn’t have enough money to pay for the repairs on one car? Why are you talking on the telephone to Ukraina while he’s asking me for money to pay the bills? You tell me!”

“He give you money. Now you give him money,” the big red mouth taunts.

“Why should my father pay for your cars? For your telephone bills? You have work. You earn money. You should contribute something to the household.” I have worked myself up into a lather of righteous anger, and the words come pouring out, some English, some Ukrainian, mixed up any old how.

“You father buy me nothing!” She leans forward and shouts into my face so close that I can feel a fine shower of saliva on my skin. I can smell armpits and hair lacquer. “No car! No jewel! No clothes!” (She pronounces it in two syllables-cloth-es.) “No cosmetic! No undercloth-es!” She yanks up her t-shirt top to display those ferocious breasts bursting like twin warheads out of an underwired, ribbon-strapped, lycra-panelled, lace-trimmed green satin rocket-launcher of a bra.

“I buy all! I work! I buy!”

When it comes to bosoms, I have to admit defeat. I am lost for words. In the silence that fells, I hear my father’s voice in the next room, droning on. He is telling Mike the story about pencils in space. I have heard it many times before. So has Mike.

“In early days of space travel, one interesting problem emerged from experiments with weightlessness. Americans found that for writing notes and keeping records, normal ink pen would not work without gravity feed. Scientists undertook intensive research, finally developed high-technology pen to work in conditions of no gravity. In Russia, scientists faced with same problem found different solution. Instead of pen, they used pencil. That is how Russians put pencils into space.”

How can my father be so blind to what is happening to him?

I turn on Valentina.

“My father is an innocent man. Stupid but innocent. You spend all your money on tart underwear and tart make-up! Is it because my father’s not enough for you, ey? Is it because you’re after another man, or two or three or four, ey? I know what you are, and soon enough my father will know. Then we’ll see!”

Stanislav exclaims, “Wow! I didn’t know Nadezhda could speak such Ukrainian!”

Then the doorbell rings. Mike answers. It’s the Zadchuks. They’re standing on the doorstep with a bunch of flowers and a home-made cake.

“Come in! Come in!” says Mike. “You’re just in time for tea.”

They hover in the doorway. They have caught sight of Valentina’s thunderous face. (The breasts are re-covered.)

“Come in,” says Valentina with a pout. They are her friends, after all, and she may need them.

“Come in,” I say, “I’ll put the kettle on.” I need time to rally, to get my breath back.

Although it is October, the weather is mild and sunny. We will drink tea in the garden. Mike and Stanislav set out deck-chairs and an old wonky camping table under the plum tree.

“Good you come,” says Pappa to the Zadchuks, settling back into the creaking canvas. “Good cake. My Millochka used to make like this.”

Valentina takes this as a slight.

“In Tesco is better.”

Mrs Zadchuk is offended.

“I like baking cake better.”

Mr Zadchuk springs to her defence.

“Why you buying cake in Tesco, Valentina? Why you no baking? Woman should bake.”

Valentina is still in full eruption-mode from her encounter with me.

“I no time to baking. All day working for money. Buy cake. Buy clothes. Buy car. No-good meanie husband give no money.”

I am afraid the t-shirt will come up again, but she satisfies herself with a dramatic bosom-lunge in my father’s direction. Alarmed, he looks to Mike for help. Mike, not knowing enough Ukrainian to understand what is going on, fatally returns to the subject of cake, and ingratiates himself with Mrs Zadchuk by helping himself to another large slice.

“Mmm. Delicious.”

Mrs Zadchuk’s pink cheeks glow. She pats his thigh.

“You good eat. I like man good eat. Why you no eat more, Yuri?”

Mr Zadchuk takes this as a slight.

“Too much cake make fatty turn. You fatty, Margaritka. Little bit fatty.”

Mrs Zadchuk takes this as a slight.

“Better fatty than skinny. Look Nadezhda. She starving Bangladesh-lady.”

I take this as a slight. Righteously, I draw in my stomach. “Thin is good. Thin is healthy. Thin people live longer.”

All of them turn on me with howls of derisive laughter.

“Thin is hunger! Thin is famine! Everybody thin drop over dead! Ha ha!”