Necessary Lies(57)
Tata stands in the open doors to what was once Anna’s home. His hair has thinned and there is an uneasy seriousness on his face, a mixture of apprehension and joy. He clears his throat and shuffles toward her. Anna moves forward to embrace him. He murmurs his greetings in a hoarse whisper. His breath is shallow and uneven. From their telephone conversations Anna knows that he has given up scouring the countryside in an old army jeep, drilling for deposits. The doctors were adamant in their warnings; “It’s this or two metres under,” one of them said, pointing to the ground. “Make your choice.” In the last years he has been slowly finishing his geological maps of Lower Silesia, completing the webs of lines and marking levels of elevation with different colours.
“Come inside,” he says. “Mama is waiting.” He lets her go first and she can hear the heaviness of his breath as he follows. Her brother takes her suitcases and carries them inside.
Anna walks cautiously, listening to still-familiar sounds. The crackling of the floorboards, squeaking in exactly the same places. The gas stove in the kitchen clicking as it used to, when her brother puts the kettle on. A whiff of a sickening, sweet odour of gas. Her legs remember the elevated threshold between the rooms, the one guests always tripped over. Her hands remember the shape and feel of the brass door handles.
Mama is standing by the living room window.
“How thin she is,” Anna thinks when she sees her, as if with each year her mother has contrived to take up less and less space. It is her face that Anna watches, searching for signs of forgiveness. Tears flow along the deep lines on her cheeks.
“She has came back,” Tata says, taking Mama’s hand in his. “I told you she would.”
“You sit down,” Mama says firmly to him. “He won’t listen to the doctors,” she says to no one in particular as he lowers himself to a sofa covered by a thin red blanket, “He won’t stop smoking. So stubborn.” She gives Anna an exasperated look and makes a face her father does not see, a face of stern resignation. “Now it’s your turn. You convince him.”
There is a moment of awkward silence as they sit, everybody waiting, fumbling for words.
“Some days he can’t breathe at all,” Mama resumes her complaints, breaking the silence.
Anna sees drops of sweat gathering on her father’s forehead. He wipes them off with a chequered handkerchief and listens to his wife’s denunciations with a mischievous smile on his lips as if it were all a prank, a good joke he was playing on her.
“Doctors,” he says. “What do they know?” He winks at Anna.
Yan comes from the kitchen and looks at her. They all watch her. They try to guess what she feels. They want to check how much she can recognise, how much she remembers.
Anna notices new things in the room: a brass flowerpot, a leather covered pillow, a round sewing basket covered with an embroidered cloth. The palm tree by the window has grown so much that it now almost reaches the ceiling, its spiky leaves spreading like a green, dusty canopy. Her presents from Montreal, so carefully chosen, now annoy her with their uncalled-for sleekness. They stand out in the shabbiness of the room: an art deco photograph frame with her picture in it, a set of paper boxes with flowery lids, potpourri in a crystal jar with a silver lid. These are the only things that remind her of William.
“Are you tired?” her mother asks, her voice still uneasy.
“No, no. I’m fine ” she says, quickly.
She gives them all their presents and they open the packages and thank her. Her mother wraps the shawl across her shoulders, her father smells the leather of the wallet.
From the kitchen, her brother brings in platters of food. The table, Anna notices, is covered by what has always been Mama’s best tablecloth, freshly ironed, white linen with red cherries embroidered along the edges. The cherries have brown stems and pairs of green leaves. She knows that the colours at one side of the cloth are markedly different, the stems of the cherries are black and the leaves are of paler green. This is where Babcia ran out of yarn and couldn’t buy more of the same colour. “You only notice it when you know,” she would say hopefully. They always agreed. The table is set with white porcelain plates, cups with wreaths of blue flowers, and silver cutlery. Platters with slices of ham, salami, roast pork take the whole centre of the table, beside a bowl of potato salad, bowls of dill pickles — marinated mushrooms, onions, herring. A basket of rye bread, thinly sliced. Slices of cheesecake and poppyseed cake, arranged on an oblong crystal platter in alternating rows wait on the side.
Anna sits at the table and lets them offer her food, taking a bit of everything. Her plate looks full, and she knows she will never be able to eat that much. They watch as she cuts a slice of ham into little bits, chews and swallows. One by one they are asking if she has missed the old tastes, if the food is good, if all is as she remembers it. “Yes,” she says. “It’s excellent. It really is.”
The tea is weak and served with lemon and sugar. A glass pot with two teabags still in it sits on the table, and her mother pours the tea into the cups. Half-slices of lemon are arranged on a crystal plate. Mama is the only one to drink her tea in a glass, the Russian way. “It tastes better,” she says and stirs the pale liquid vigorously with a spoon, heavy, solid silver that was always kept for most important visitors.
“So many people left the country,” Mama says and sighs. “Young people. Another generation decimated. How long can Poland withstand this constant loss of blood.”