Читать книгу Naked Angels - Judi James, Judi James - Страница 14

Mikhail stood self-consciously on the backdrop, staring at his fingernails. The nails were dirty. The rest of him, on the other hand, was scrupulously clean. Claude had suggested he go for a scrub before the session and he’d spent an hour in the tub, wasting time, trying to delay things.

Claude was whistling again, busying himself behind the camera and pottering excitedly. He’d put Mikhail in a black kimono. Then he’d covered some wooden crates with a sheet and told him to drape himself over them. Draping yourself was more difficult than Mikhail had thought. He felt awkward and stupid, like an upturned insect that can’t right itself again.

‘What is that song?’ he asked Claude. Claude stopped pottering and looked up, surprised.

‘What song?’ he asked.

‘The one you are whistling.’ It was getting on Mikhail’s nerves. He felt anxious and he hated himself for it. Claude had insisted on having a three-bar electric fire in the small room and Mikhail could feel the sweat running down his back. The lead from the fire was plugged into a lamp socket in the hall and he kept wishing Claude would forget and trip over it.

Suddenly Claude seemed ready. He pushed his glasses to the top of his head and beamed at Mikhail.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. Mikhail nodded. Twenty-five forint. It was all he allowed himself to think of. Living in the apartment meant he could save some of the money, too. How long would it be before he had enough to get away from Budapest? A flash went off and he jumped, squinting.

‘Try to relax,’ Claude crooned. He waited until Mikhail was still again and then took another picture.

‘Why are you nervous?’ Claude asked.

‘I feel stupid,’ Mikhail replied.

Claude smiled. Mikhail had never seen him smile so much. ‘You look terrific,’ he told him. ‘I wish you could see how good you look. If you did you wouldn’t worry. Here – this is what you look like.’ He held a book out to Mikhail. The book was an old one, the pages yellow at the edges. Mikhail supposed the pictures were works of art. Most of them were etchings of young boys in togas. Their faces were beautiful. Mikhail closed the book and put it down carefully.

Claude took some more shots before suggesting Mikhail have a break. The cooler air in the passage felt good. Claude went into the kitchen to make them some tea. Mikhail followed him.

‘What happens next?’ he asked.

Claude looked alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Is this when you fuck me?’ Mikhail had never used the word before but Tincan used it all the time.

Claude dropped a teacup onto the floor. As he bent to pick it up Mikhail noticed that the seam of his trousers had split. Claude reached out for the cup but his hand missed and he stayed there where he was, as though frozen to the spot. Mikhail could not see his face but, when his shoulders started heaving, he assumed the older man was crying.

‘Shit!’ Mikhail whispered. It was another Tincan word.

Claude moved across the floor on his knees, his glasses misted with his tears. When he reached Mikhail’s feet he bent double and kissed them. His mouth felt wet. Mikhail kicked him away and he rolled like a dog.

‘Don’t hate me!’ Claude said. He was sobbing properly now, his belly rising and falling like a child’s. He would wake his father. Mikhail put his hand out to stop him and Claude grabbed it.

‘Please don’t hate me,’ he whispered, pressing his lips against the centre of the palm.

‘I can’t afford to hate you,’ Mikhail said quietly. ‘If I don’t live here I’ll die.’ He knew that. He had no option. That was the way things were in his life. If you wanted to stay alive there were certain things you had to do: steal; sell drugs; pose for pictures; get fucked by old men. That was how it was, he understood that. Nothing was for nothing – it was a fact of his life.

Claude was groaning at his feet, soft little whelps, like an animal in pain. Mikhail undid his robe and the moans grew more intense. Mikhail blocked out what was happening and thought about the money.

Twenty-five forint. It seemed like a fortune. He would save it all for a plane ticket and then he would fly off somewhere where there was no snow. America was a good place, Andreas had told him that. You could get everything there; everything you wanted. Andreas had planned to go to America to get a record deal for his group. Maybe Mikhail could go there in his place. How much and how long would it take, though?

Claude was kissing his feet again and he kicked him harder, this time in the belly. Claude let out a cry of pleasure. ‘Again!’ he called. Mikhail watched him squirm on the floor.

Too long, was the answer that came into his head, much, much too long.

It was a whole year after Miss Clayburg had left the house at Cape Cod, and nothing much more had happened other than Evangeline growing another inch and her grandmother having her heart broken for the second time.

The old lady never said a word, but Evangeline knew she had pinned great hopes on her being artistically gifted. She still went up to the studio to try long after her tutor was gone, but one day the door was just locked and that was obviously an end to it. Evangeline would have been relieved, but her disappointment stung like salt on a scratch.

She wanted to do well so badly that it hurt. If Grandma Klippel was searching for another Darius, then she was looking, too, for some special talent to make her worthy of her parents’ love, even though she knew they were dead now. Sometimes she got angry rather than sad and wished she had a flair so that they might have realized too late what they’d missed and regret not taking her with them. She even wrote small scripts in her workbook:

DARIUS: Did you reelize Evangeline had flair as an artist too, dear?

THEA: No i never new that. she was always such a plain child that i never held out much hope for her. Perhaps we made a misstake, Darius. Perhaps she shuld be here with us now, after all.

When she had finished writing she would always tear the pages out and screw them up into small balls, just in case. She didn’t think Grandma Klippel ever came snooping but if she did Evangeline didn’t want her finding out her son and his family were all dead. Sometimes she wished Cecil was still there so she could discuss things with someone. She even asked her grandmother if she had his address, but was told he was back in Britain and wouldn’t want to be bothered by letters from little girls he hardly knew.

Then something strange happened.

Evangeline was called out of class one wet September day and sent home early. All the way back in the car she worked over what might have occurred but nothing came to mind – apart from the extreme long shot that Patrick might have found his way back.

When they got to the house Grandma Klippel was not on the porch as usual but waiting in the best lounge beside a tray of tea. Evangeline had not been in the room much before. Someone had taken the sheets off the chairs and there was a fire burning and spitting in the hearth; they had put pine logs on the fire and the smoke smelt sweet. Mrs O’Reilly must have been up earlier than usual because there was the biggest bunch of anemones ever in a porcelain bowl on the centre table.

The room itself was mainly reds and rose pinks, and would have looked jolly enough had it not been for the expression on Grandma Kippel’s face. Her nose was as crimson as the wallpaper and she looked like she had a cold. Her eyes were swollen and her hands looked fidgety. When she picked up her cup it danced noisily in its saucer.

There was a man in the room. Evangeline thought he must be the new chauffeur, even though she had no idea the old one was leaving. The man was no taller than her grandmother but he had thick hands that were making heavy work of the bone china. His dark hair was cut short and greased back and he wore a suit that looked wrong for his body. He smelt faintly of frying, as though he had stopped off at the diner on the journey down from wherever he lived.

‘Evangeline,’ her grandmother said, ‘… dear, this is Mr Castelli.’

He had a good-looking face, even though he was nervous. Evangeline stepped forward to take his hand, wondering why it was so important for her to meet the new chauffeur.

‘Mr Castelli is your father, Evangeline, your real father.’

She stopped before their hands touched. The man gave her grandmother what looked like an angry glance before turning back to stare at her. It made her itchy-uncomfortable.

‘Darius is my father.’ She knew she’d used the wrong tense but anything else would have hurt her too much to say it.

Grandma Klippel’s face looked funny, as though she wanted to sneeze and was trying not to.

‘Darius was only your father because he married your mother, Evangeline. When he adopted you he took you for his own, I know that. But Mr Castelli is your father by blood. Do you understand? He was married to your mother before she met my son.

‘I know she told you about him. Darius was always insistent about discussing things frankly. Do you remember?’

Evangeline nodded. She had always known she had two fathers but she’d thought this one didn’t matter because she had never even seen him. He had a wide neck, like a boxer. His tie was done up, but the top button of his collar was left undone. Evangeline wished he hadn’t done that because she knew her grandmother would not approve. She liked men to look properly smart, it was something she often remarked on. A person’s dress was a strong guide to their character, as far as Grandma Klippel was concerned. Mr Castelli would have been tested and found wanting. He had sallow-looking skin and a strong, beefy nose.

‘You look just like your mother, Evangeline,’ he said.

‘No,’ Evangeline told him wisely, ‘I look just like you.’

Mikhail waited until Claude was at work before ransacking the apartment. Things had got out of hand. Tincan had been right: you had to get on. Nothing else mattered – it was stupid to pretend that it did. He threw things from cupboards and broke plates and glasses against the walls. He found Claude’s savings beneath the mattress on his father’s bed. The old man had said nothing as he took it, just stared at him with an evil glint in his eye. Maybe he had known Mikhail was living there. Maybe other boys had done the same thing.

Claude’s payments had never materialized after the first week. Mikhail had reminded him many times but Claude always came up with an excuse. For a man who worked in a bank he seemed strangely forgetful when it came to cash.

Mikhail counted out the exact amount he was owed and then sat staring at the rest. Put yourself first. Nothing else matters. He took a few notes more, then he put them back. Then he stuffed the whole wad into his pocket. Then he pulled it out again. Was he a thief or not? He couldn’t decide.

The long winter was over. As the snow cleared Mikhail had started cleaning the windows of Claude’s apartment of all their dust and grime, so that he could look out onto the small square below. He went out so little that his skin was unnaturally pale. He was a little fatter now, and Claude had bought him new clothes.

When Claude went out he would read or sleep and when he came back they would talk or he would pose for more photos. He also liked to take baths – lots of them – because he always felt dirty.

There was a smear on the glass. He licked his sleeve and wiped the smear off with spit. The more the sun shone the more oppressive the apartment had become. Claude would never turn the heating down because he said it was bad for his father’s health. When he came home he would take off his suit and wear a cotton kimono instead.

Watching other children in the square below was the most painful thing of all. There were boys of his age down there, playing football and messing about. He used to look at himself in the mirror sometimes, asking himself why he had deserved such a fate.

Claude liked to pose as much as he liked taking photos. Mikhail had discovered this fact while rooting out some photos of him in a suitcase under the bed.

‘Show me what to do and I’ll photograph you,’ he told Claude the next time they did some shots together. Claude had been selling the shots of him now, he was sure of it – not paying Mikhail for the posing, while he was getting paid well himself. He had tried not to think of all the men who must have looked at them.

Claude had looked pleased with Mikhail’s suggestion. He had shown Mikhail all the basics: how to set the lights, how to focus, and how to frame a shot. Then he’d sat coyly in front of the camera, beaming, while Mikhail clicked away.

Printing the photographs had been less fun, but Mikhail had persisted. Claude used the bathroom as a darkroom and, with two of them in there, it became over-crowded. He placed planks over the bath to use as a table and there was a red bulb in the socket that gave an eerie glow in the darkness. Claude apologized every time they got squeezed together and Mikhail didn’t know what was worse, the touching or the bleating apologies. There was a certain magic in the printing process that enthralled him every time, though. You put paper into a tank of fluid and faces appeared on that paper. He saw Claude’s face, weak and beaming, appearing slowly as he slooshed the stuff around.

He could almost stand Claude’s simpering smiles since he had come to the decision about leaving. He was not going back onto the streets, though. That much he knew for sure. He looked at the money again. Half of it, that was fair for all he’d been through. Half of it would be enough to teach Claude a lesson. He counted the notes into two piles and then worked out how long he could live on the money. He would need a job when it ran out; or he would need a job straight away if he was to spend the cash on a plane ticket. He stood up and padded into the studio. Claude’s camera was still on its tripod.

Mikhail unscrewed the camera carefully and wrapped it in a sheet before stuffing it inside his jacket and pulling up the zip. As he did so he heard Claude’s key in the lock.

‘Guess what,’ he heard Claude holler, ‘a robbery at the bank!’ He sounded happy. ‘Thieves broke in last night, and once we had been interviewed by the police they said we should have the rest of the day off while they cleared up—’ He saw the carnage inside his precious apartment and froze in the doorway.

‘Holy shit…’ Mikhail had never heard him swear before. It sounded funny and made him want to laugh. ‘Mikhail?’ Claude’s voice dropped. Mikhail heard him creeping around, looking for burglars. Two robberies in one day! He would spend the rest of his life telling the story.

He reached the studio and Mikhail hid behind the door. Claude’s head appeared first, low down, as though he were crouching. ‘Mikhail?’ he whispered. He sounded genuinely scared.

‘Claude.’ Mikhail stepped out suddenly. Claude’s eyes bulged with the shock and he looked as though he might have a seizure.

‘Jesus! Oh Christ, Mikhail, I thought you were … what happened? Did someone break in?’

Mikhail smiled. ‘No,’ he told Claude, ‘I’m leaving, that’s all. I’ve taken some money – all you owe me for posing – and I’ve borrowed a few of your things to see me through. You wouldn’t want me to starve, would you?’

Claude’s eyes were perfect circles. You could see the red veins all around them. His mouth drooped at the corners like a clown’s.

‘Leaving?’ he asked.

Mikhail nodded.

Claude stared around the room in disbelief. ‘You can’t leave me, Mikhail,’ he whispered, ‘not like this!’ ‘How, then?’ Mikhail asked him.

‘I don’t know.’ Claude looked desperate. ‘Sit down with me first. Have some coffee. We can talk. I’ll pay in future, I swear. I love you, Mikhail. Don’t leave me.’

He was on his knees again. Mikhail watched in disgust as he crawled across the floor and grabbed at his legs.

‘Please, Mikhail.’

Mikhail nearly lost his balance. ‘Stop it, you crazy bastard, you almost had me over!’

Claude looked up at him and his tearful eyes focused on the bulge in Mikhail’s jacket. His expression changed suddenly and he reached up towards it.

‘What have you got there?’ he asked. He ripped the jacket open. ‘My camera! No, Mikhail! Drop it, you little bastard! Give it back!’ He tried to wrest the camera from Mikhail but the boy was too quick for him. Mikhail walked towards the door to leave. When he turned Claude was behind him, an iron poker in his shaking hands and his face distorted by anger.

‘Give it to me, you bastard!’ he screamed. He lifted the poker above his head to strike but Mikhail moved first, ducking out of the way as the thing whistled past his ear.

‘Stop it, Claude!’ he shouted. ‘Are you mad, or something?’

‘My camera!’ Claude’s voice was completely unrecognizable. He lifted the poker again but Mikhail punched him in the face before he could strike. There was a sickening sound of bone being crushed and then a blinding pain in Mikhail’s knuckles. The pain doubled him up, and he thought his hand was broken. He shoved it between his legs and let out a howl.

Claude stood very still for a moment and then crumpled to the floor with blood spurting from his nose. The blood seemed endless, it flecked the walls and even reached the ceiling, where it speckled crimson against the white paint. Claude was silent. He sat propped against the hatstand, his eyes open but not moving. Mikhail thought he was watching him but when he stepped out of the way, the eyes stared straight ahead. The blood was bubbling now, making Mikhail feel sick.

‘Oh, Jesus, Claude, are you dead?’ he whispered to himself. He didn’t care so much, except for the fact that it would be another thing the police would come hunting him for.

Claude let out a moan and Mikhail let out a sigh of relief.

‘Don’t go, Mikhail,’ Claude gargled. Blood cascaded from his nose into his open mouth as he spoke. He spat the blood out and some of it peppered Mikhail’s jacket.

‘You stupid bastard!’ Mikhail said. The door opened at the far end of the hall. They both looked round at the same time. Claude’s father was standing in the doorway, clutching the wooden surround for support.

‘Fuck off!’ he said. There was no strength in his voice; it sounded as though he was already dead.

Mikhail looked at the old man and then he looked down at Claude.

Then he left.

Evangeline’s real father stayed at the house for a few days, until things got so bad between him and her grandmother that you could see sparks in the air. Grandma Klippel went through the motions of playing hostess but anyone could see it was as though a nasty smell she couldn’t quite place was hanging about the house. Evangeline’s father, on the other hand, acted as though he couldn’t wait to be away, however hard he tried not to show it. Grandma Klippel’s wealth seemed too much for him. He didn’t sit up straight at dinner and he ate with the wrong fork.

He tried to be friends with Evangeline in an edgy sort of way.

‘Don’t call me Mr Castelli,’ he said the first time they were alone, ‘call me Nico – everyone else does.’

‘My grandmother doesn’t,’ Evangeline pointed out.

Nico pulled a face. ‘Your grandmother is a very special kind of lady,’ was all he would say.

‘Are you poor or something, Nico?’ Evangeline asked.

He laughed, but he didn’t look as though he found her comment funny. ‘No, I’m not poor. I might look it next to your grandmother, but then so would fifty per cent of the population, come to that. I just live differently, Evangeline. I have a different style of life.’

He ran out of conversation after that; it was obvious he wasn’t used to being around children. Evangeline wanted to help him out but she didn’t know how. She didn’t know what he was there for, either, though she heard him and her grandmother arguing about money a couple of times. She didn’t understand what all the arguments could be about. Grandma Klippel had enough money for all of them.

She got called into the lounge again. Her father’s face was red and he looked angry and embarrassed at the same time. Her grandmother was sitting down, staring at her hands so that Evangeline could not see the look in her eyes.

‘Evangeline,’ she began, ‘dear, your father wants to take you back to New York with him …’

So it was the painting. Evangeline had shown no talent for art and now her grandmother, too, was fed up with her. She had been one long disappointment to everyone. She sucked in her bottom lip. She hated them all for rejecting her; only she didn’t, she loved them, and she hated herself most for loving them and disappointing them.

She was ugly and stupid. There was nothing about her that anyone would want to latch on to. She was disposable, she knew that. She wondered if you could learn not to be, because all this rejection was very hurtful.

Her grandmother was looking at her now. She searched the old woman’s eyes for a sign of regret over giving her up. Grandma Klippel looked sad, but not desperate. If someone had come to take her beloved Patrick away when Evangeline was younger she would have fought to the death to keep him.

‘You don’t have to come, Evangeline,’ Nico was saying. She barely heard him at first, she was thinking so hard.

‘Do you want me to go?’ she asked her grandmother.

The old woman sighed. ‘I’ve got no rights, dear,’ she said softly, ‘whereas you and Mr Castelli are related by blood. I’m just the mother of your stepfather. I can’t keep you here …’

‘She can stay if she wants to.’ Nico’s face had become redder. So he didn’t want her, either.

Grandma Klippel stood up and faced him. A handkerchief fell from her lap onto the floor.

‘You told me that was why you came here, Mr Castelli,’ she said. Her voice sounded polite enough but tight, as though she was coiled up like a spring inside.

Nico ran a hand through his hair. ‘She doesn’t have to,’ he repeated.

‘Why?’ Grandma Klippel asked. ‘How else would you get at all the money you think is owing to her?’

‘Jesus!’ Nico looked angry. ‘In front of the kid, Mrs Klippel, have a little charity! Evangeline, honey, go and play outside or something for a little while, will you?’ he asked.

But Grandma Klippel was too quick for him. She grasped Evangeline by the shoulders and her hands were shaking hard. ‘Do you want to go to New York with your father, Evangeline?’ she asked. Her voice softened, ‘You know you have a home here for as long as you want.’

Evangeline didn’t care any more. New York sounded as bad as Cape Cod. Anywhere was bad without her mother and Darius and Lincoln and Patrick. She felt funny. She didn’t want them to know they had hurt her so much. She wanted to cling onto her grandmother and make her love her properly, somehow, but then she wanted to hurt her back, too.

‘I don’t mind,’ she whispered. The little girl inside her was hoping that her grandmother might fight over her. Then she thought suddenly and stupidly that her family might be waiting in New York, that they might have been there all this time; but she wasn’t a little girl now, she was nine years old, and she knew better.

‘You don’t mind.’ Her grandmother sounded upset.

Nico looked uneasy. ‘Do you know what New York’s like?’ he asked. He bent down so that he was the same height. He smelt of soap and she could see where he had cut himself shaving. He had big dark eyes. She could even see her own reflection in his pupils, and that was something she had never seen happen before. Perhaps it only happened with people you were related to by blood. She tried to remember if she had seen herself in her mother’s eyes, but she couldn’t.

‘There’s no sea there, you know,’ he said.

That was it, then. New York it was.