Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

‘He’s on his way.’

What harm?

‘Would you like to sit up a little?’

He settled her against the pillows, spread her hair out across her shoulders.

‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll just bring them in.’

And oh God but they’ll pay .

Sokolov had come from the Museum. He sat first by the door. A line of faces looked expectantly, solemnly, towards Theo. Sokolov stood up. Theo leaned close and spoke rapidly into his ear, ‘I don’t see a problem with your plans for the child,’ he said. ‘As long as his mother doesn’t find out.’

Sokolov smiled, almost boyish in his unconcealed delight. ‘I think that’s the wise decision,’ he said. ‘I’m very grateful. We shall talk soon.’

Theo glanced along the row. A couple of learned doctors. Some dandy young buck. His girl. Couple of ladies. Old man in black fur. All rich.

‘Ten minutes,’ he said.

She saw faces looking at her.

‘Theo.’ He could scarcely hear her.

‘Yes, Julia.’

Her mouth was dry. ‘Give me a drink.’

He held the glass to her lips, and she wet them and spoke.

‘Do they want me to sing?’

‘No, no, you don’t have to do anything.’

‘Don’t cry,’ she said.

‘I’m not. Don’t worry about anything, Julia, it’s all going to be fine. It’s just some friends come to say hello.’

‘Has Cato come?’

‘Soon.’

The faces blurred in front of her eyes. She didn’t recognise any. Voices murmured. Someone wanted to shake her hand. A face, close up. Faces. It was hot. Too hot in here, she wanted to say but couldn’t remember how to say it. Her hands were touched. The faces melted into one another and the mess made her feel sick. It swirled about then re-formed into a mass of spiteful child faces.

‘Take them away,’ she said.

She turned to look at Theo but all she saw was the fig tree dropping its fruits onto the stones in the patio and Federico the iguana stretched along the lower branch. His eye swivelled and fixed her. The stones burned. Fiery, they rose up around her. Solana would come soon and take her back to bed, because she was sick. So sick.

The hollow-faced nurse came in softly, walked over to Theo and said, ‘There’s another young man for Miss Julia. He says his name is Tolya.’

Theo looked up, surprised. Julia’s eyes had closed, but she opened them now and it made him jump, as if she were dead already and her corpse had opened its eyes.

‘Tolya,’ she said.

He looked about at all the serious faces, feeling as if he’d just woken up. The old man in black fur was staring at him intently. ‘Lent,’ he said, ‘can I ask her a question?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Theo said.

‘Tolya,’ said Julia, lifting her head a fraction from the pillow.

‘In a minute, dear,’ said Theo, ‘we mustn’t overcrowd the room.’

She sank back, tossed her head and started speaking in Spanish again, a note of panic entering her voice.

‘Mama,’ she said, ‘my belly’s sore.’

‘Julia,’ said Theo.

‘Time to leave,’ the hollow-faced nurse told the assembly round the bed, smiling as she began to usher them towards the door.

‘There,’ he said, ‘they’ve gone. Here’s Tolya.’

But she was burning up again.

‘Only for a minute,’ said the nurse, leaving the room and closing the door quietly.

Poor clod sat there gawping. Theo felt himself dislocate. We are getting there, he thought with almost a sense of wonder. That far-off place round every corner. This is it. Tolya reached out and took her hand, sat holding it silently, stroking the back of it with his thick fingers. She probably didn’t know he was there. ‘The fur is very soft,’ he said.

‘Not fur,’ said Theo. ‘Hair. She doesn’t like you to call it fur.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t think she’ll mind if it’s you,’ said Theo.

When her head began to toss upon the pillow, Tolya left in tears. I won’t cry, Theo told himself. I’m not here. The nurse came by and gave her something that put her into a restless sleep, and he went out into the corridor, down to the front door and stood gratefully gulping cold air.

‘Here, Lent,’ said a slightly aggrieved voice, ‘was that entirely fair?’

The old man in black fur stood on the steps smoking a pipe.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘In there,’ the old fool said. ‘That was nowhere near ten minutes.’

‘What!’

‘I know it’s special circumstances,’ he went on, ‘but that wasn’t cheap. And then you go and let that other fellow in for nothing.’

Theo stared at him for a moment, turned and walked back inside. Sokolov was coming out of Trettenbacher’s office. ‘My dear Lent,’ he said, busying himself with his gloves, ‘I am so sorry.’

A year ago, we’d never have imagined. A year ago — a theatre opening, pink flowers in her head-dress. ‘Yes, yes,’ said Theo impatiently. He returned to her bedside. How long had he been gone? He’d only been gone a minute but it was all change again, sleep gone, two nurses, Julia doubled over on her side, Trettenbacher striding importantly in. Her nightie was up, her stomach swollen up hard like a coconut. Her eyes squeezed tight. Trettenbacher laid his hand on her stomach and she screamed.

‘Wait outside please, Mr Lent,’ said the hollow-faced nurse.

He could hear her screams in the corridor. He couldn’t bear it. He ran outside, stood on the steps, covered his face. She wouldn’t want it. Him remembering her like that. No good. He walked backwards and forwards on the steps for several minutes, punching the side of his head from time to time. He could not carry it, this death, this end, it should not have happened. ‘It’s all over,’ he said aloud. No more on the road. No shows. No rush of it all. Her in the spotlight, taking a bow, the applause, the smell of perfume. He went back inside, found a nurse and said he was going home, it seemed there was no use in his presence here and could someone please let him know as soon as there was any news. Then he almost ran home through the dark empty streets.

She didn’t even know I was there, he told himself. What’s the difference, here or there? There was another letter from Sokolov on the rug. He skimmed it. Money. Let us talk. The remains of your son. I would not raise such a delicate issue were it not for the pressures of time.

He poured a long drink.

The Museum, he read, I’m sure you realise, would pay very handsomely indeed for two such specimens.

Around midnight they called him, but she was dead by the time he arrived, her hands crossed on the coverlet, hair combed, eyes closed. All gone, that sickness, pain, everything. He should do something, say something. The nurses were there. ‘So, was it?’ he said, ‘Did she?’

‘We helped her all we could,’ said the hollow-faced nurse.

‘I’m very grateful to you.’

‘Mr Lent,’ said the big nurse, touching his arm, ‘here are her things.’

He didn’t remember getting home, but there he was, sitting on the bed looking at the baby clothes he’d taken from the chiffonier. All in sizes, as she’d said. The poor could have them. Her guitar. The harmonica. A pair of small white dancing shoes standing neatly together at the side of the bed. And this ridiculous thing in his hands. Ye Gods. Yatzi. What do I do with you? He walked into the other room where the fire still burned in the big fireplace. I looked after her, got her a living, kept her company, he thought. And she certainly looked after me. Wouldn’t hear a word against me. Always on my side. He stood looking down into the flames. Tears came into his eyes. What now? Can’t have this around. Reminding me, reminding me.