2005 - A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian Read Online Free PDF Page B

her.” He reaches for a fat brown envelope on the sideboard which appears to be stuffed with papers.
    “Well why don’t I just pop out and get your shopping? Then we can all have tea together when she comes back.” Cheery, sensible voice. English voice. Distances me from all the pain and madness.
    On the way back from the supermarket, I pull up outside the nursing home where Valentina works. It is the same nursing home where my mother came briefly before she died, so I know the lie of the land. I park outside on the road, and then, instead of going in through the front door, I go round the side and look in through the kitchen window. A fat middle-aged woman is stirring something on the stove. Is it her? Next to the kitchen is the dining-room, where some of the older residents are gathering for tea. A couple of bored teenagers in pinafore overalls are shoving them around in wheelchairs. There are other people with trays of food, but they are too far away to see. Now some people are coming out through the front door, and making their way to the bus stop. Are they staff, or visiting relatives? What am I looking for, anyway? I am looking for someone like my father’s description—a beautiful blonde with an enormous bust. No one like that here.
    When I get home, my father is in a state of distress. She has telephoned to say that she isn’t coming. She is going straight home. Tomorrow she travels back to Ukraine. He must see her before she goes. He must give her his gift.
    The envelope is not sealed, and from where I am sitting I can see that it contains several sheets of paper covered with the same crabbed handwriting, and some banknotes. I cannot see how many. I feel rage rise in me. Red blood swims before my eyes.
    “Pappa, why are you giving her money? You have little enough from your pension to live on.”
    “Nadezhda, this is absolutely none of you business. Why you so bothered what I am doing with my money? You thinking there will be none left for you, hah?”
    “Can’t you see she’s conning you, Pappa? I think I should go to the police.”
    He catches his breath. He is scared of the police, the local council, even the uniformed postman who comes to the front door every day. I have frightened him.
    “Nadezhda, why you are so cruel? How I have raised such a hard-hearted monster? Leave my house. I never want” (vant) “to see you again. You are not my daughter!” Suddenly he starts to cough. His pupils are dilated. There are flecks of saliva on his lips.
    “Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Pappa. You said that to me before—do you remember? When I was a student and you thought I was too left-wing.”
    “Even Lenin wrote that left-wing communism is infantile.” (Cough cough.) “Infantile Disorder.”
    “You said I was a Trotskyist. You said ‘Leave my house I never want to see you again!’ But, look, I’m still here. Still putting up with your nonsense.”
    “You were Trotskyism. All of you student revolutionaries with your foolish flags and banners. Do you know what Trotsky did? Do you know how many people he killed? And in what a manner? Do you? Trotsky was a monster, worse than Lenin. Worse than Vera.”
    “Pappa, even if I was a Trotskyist, which by the way I was not , it was still an unkind thing to say to your daughter.”
    That was more than thirty years ago and I can still remember the shock of hurt—I who had always believed until then that my parents’ love was unconditional. But it wasn’t really about politics; it was about will—his will against mine: his right to command me, as my father.
    Mike intervenes.
    “Now, Nikolai, I’m sure you didn’t mean that. Now Nadezhda, there’s no need to rake over past disputes. Sit down, both of you, and let’s talk about it.”
    He’s good at that sort of thing.
    My father sits down. He is shaking, and his jaw is clenched. I remember that look from childhood, and I want to punch him, or to run away.
    “Nikolai, I think Nadezhda has a point.