Эдвард Докс - Pravda ['Self Help' in the UK]

Thus the day so far.

Now they were all gathered in the lounge at the front of the house. Max, Nicholas, Masha, Zhanna (all smoking or between cigarettes), Gabriel, Isabella, and Samantha, the last of the lunchtime five to leave, since she was not going to be coming to the club and would not therefore be seeing them later.

Max sat in the deepest chair with his back to the windows, the smoke of his cigar so thick that Isabella was aware that she could really see him clearly only now and then, when the many house drafts conspired. Masha was handing out cake, though with napkins rather than plates, which somehow infuriated Zhanna, which in turn might have been the reason for Masha’s refusal to make the trip back to the kitchen for crockery. Zhanna was beside Max but on an upright chair, dressed in strict secretarial two-piece, twenty-dernier pantyhose, shoulder pads, serious heels, and wearing eyeliner and big hair as if she might be called upon at any moment to represent the very distillation of fashion. Gabriel too found the lack of plates unreasonably annoying, but more on behalf of Samantha, toward whom he had adopted a self-consciously chivalrous air throughout the last hour. Like most of their friends, Samantha was seventeen, a year older. (To Masha’s eternal satisfaction, both Gabriel and Isabella had been moved up a year at infant school.) And she was waiting for her boyfriend, Steve (eighteen, soft-top MG), to pick her up. Steve was late. He was a dental technician and (for reasons undisclosed) dental technicians seldom ran on time on Saturdays. But it was somehow clear—to the Glovers, at least—that the next phase of the day, whatever that was, could not begin until Steve had been and gone.

It was perhaps for this reason, and as if to apply the broom a little harder, that Nicholas now brought the conversation to Samantha directly.

“So when is the baby due? Have you thought about a name?”

“Not really, Nicholas. I mean, I have had some thoughts, but I dunno if it’s a boy or a girl yet. Got a feeling it’s a boy.”

For what felt like the thousandth time that day, the twins flinched mentally—they knew their father hated their friends’ calling him by his Christian name. And yet they loved Samantha all the more for doing so.

“Must be exciting.” Nicholas seemed curiously untroubled, though—polite, interested even. “We are biased, of course. We like the Russian names. How about… how about Tatiana if it’s a girl, Eugene if it’s a boy?”

Masha got up and began rather noisily to pour the tea from the samovar on the side.

“I was thinking more like Dominic or Stephen… or maybe Alison. Dunno.” Samantha smoothed her stomach, enjoying the attention. “It’s going to be a surprise.”

“Wonderful.” Nicholas sighed. “A little tiresome, isn’t it, though? That it’s always one or the other—boy or girl, girl or boy. You’d think just once we’d come up with something new. Shame, really. Pregnancy is never that surprising in the end.”

“Nobody takes milk, do they?” Masha addressed the room by addressing the wall loudly.

“Yes, Mum, I still do. As I always have. Since I was two,” Gabriel answered. He turned to his friend. “Sam?”

“Erm… Not sure if I’ve got time, Gabe. Steve will be here any minute.”

“Have some and just leave it if he comes,” Gabriel said quietly, before directing his voice to where his mother stood waiting quizzically for the outcome of his consultation. “One for Samantha too, please, Mum. With milk.”

“Okay.” Without saying or doing anything at all, Masha somehow transmitted to the room her disapproval of milk-takers (a class of person quite beyond hope) and began to hand out those cups already poured to Max, Zhanna, Isabella, and Nicholas, the worthy ones.

“I think it’s refreshing, anyway—having children young.” Nicholas reached up for his and sipped immediately. He took some strange pride in being able to drink his tea at boiling point. “Good for you.”

“Samantha doesn’t need your approval, Dad.” This from Gabriel.

Masha left the room, presumably to fetch some milk.

“Oh God, no. Lucky thing too. Because I don’t approve of anything, Gabriel, as you know.” Nicholas winked at Samantha.

Gabriel shook his head in adolescent disbelief.

On the sofa, Isabella was torn between wishing that her brother would stop behaving so painfully and wishing that her father would shut up. And all of a sudden she was dying for a cigarette. Ideally, one of the thin Russian ones that her grandfather smoked when he wasn’t on cigars. Perversely, the more the birthday normalized (and normalized all the people in the room), the more she wanted to escape, to feel and to be exotic. Indeed, from within the prism of her sixteen-year-old sensibility, it seemed to her a waste that her grandfather should be forced to witness such domestic tedium. She imagined that Zhanna felt the same and found herself empathizing with the secretary’s scornful silence. Presents, parochial friends, cars, new computer, clothes, tea, cake, this dumb conversation, sixteen itself. She was embarrassed on Grandpa’s behalf. And this new embarrassment lay uneasily, like a wriggling blanket, over all the other embarrassments she was feeling. A cigarette would help. It was strange, though: Grandpa Max could sit so still that he almost disappeared.

“I’m sure yours will be a fine child whatever you name it.” This at last was Max himself, his voice deep, like sand in hot wax from the years of smoking. “You are young and you are fit. That’s the main thing.”

Zhanna pursed.

Masha reentered the room just in time to see her do so.

“It’s Sikhism tea,” said Nicholas as Masha came over with the last two cups, “scientifically proven to help in nine out of ten pregnancies. We all drink it religiously—just in case.”

Gabriel reached up to take charge of Samantha’s cup.

Masha did not sit down but returned to the samovar and began to cut secondary slices of the cake.

And Isabella was now certain that her mother was drawing out her tasks to avoid any serious interaction. But whether something in particular was causing this newfound domestication, she could not determine. Certainly it was unlike her mother not to come into the heart of the conversation, especially when her father was rehearsing his prejudices or behaving like an idiot. Perhaps it was Grandpa’s presence. Perhaps it was the subject matter. Whatever, her mother’s evasion aroused her curiosity. And so, believing her initiative to be a further example of mature social skill, she spoke up.

“Mum, nobody wants any more cake. Leave it. Come and sit down. You’ve done enough.”

Of course Masha was unable to ignore her daughter’s specific appeal, and so, balancing a few more slices on yet another napkin, she came over with a thin smile.

“I know you all like the marzipan and you’re just pretending to like the rest of it, so here are some marzipan bits.” She laid them out on the little table. “Samantha?”

But Samantha did not answer and Masha did not manage to sit down, because just then the doorbell chimed.

“That, we must assume, will be Steve,” Nicholas observed, lighting yet another cigarette.

“Oh shit,” Samantha said. “Oh, sorry. Excuse the French. I’d love some more cake, Maria. But I’m going to have hit the road… Thanks for the tea, though. In fact, thanks for everything.”

“It’s been a pleasure having you.” Masha continued to stand. “Here, take this.” She reached down and gave Samantha a huge slice. “They don’t appreciate it anyway. They just pretend.”

Isabella noticed the deeply disguised relief in her mother’s voice that their pregnant young friend was finally going. Samantha rose. And there followed a chorus of byes and pleased-to-meet-yous as Gabriel escorted her to the door.