The Last Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

confusion and stuttering nervousness.
    â€˜I am, I was a writer,’ I corrected myself.
    â€˜Was?’ she asked. ‘Surely that’s one thing you can do no matter what your age?’
    â€˜Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. I find it hard now,’ I said, wishing I had not introduced the topic. It trespassed on an area that was far too closely related to why I was sitting in front of her.
    At that moment the baby shouted angrily. The spoon of yogurt, which had remained for the past few moments suspended in mid-air between tub and mouth, found its way to its destination. Jolanta fed the baby quietly for a moment. Then she turned back to me and said, ‘Perhaps, then, you could help me?’
    â€˜Help you?’ I asked, taken aback. ‘Of course. I would be delighted to help you.’
    Tiring of our chatter Rasa began to cry, demanding attention. Jolanta lifted her up and shushed her. She wailed loudly. I waited patiently but the baby was not at that moment going to let us finish our conversation. Jolanta glanced at her watch, awkwardly, holding the baby in her arms.
    â€˜I’m late,’ she commented to herself as much as to me. She stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have an appointment now. Would you seriously be willing to help me?’
    â€˜Of course,’ I assured her, standing too.
    â€˜Perhaps we could meet again?’ she asked a little nervously, as if she felt that she might be imposing upon me.
    â€˜I would be delighted,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to take your telephone number and call you?’
    â€˜No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, no need. We can meet again tomorrow if you are free?’
    â€˜Yes, I will be,’ I said.
    â€˜Shall we say here then, at twelve?’
    â€˜Perhaps I could take you somewhere a little nicer for lunch?’ I suggested. I indicated the polystyrene cup. ‘The coffee here really isn’t drinkable.’
    â€˜That would be nice.’ She smiled. Her eyes were beautifully bright. My heart pounded. Foolishness, I said to myself once more. Pure foolishness.

Chapter 7
    Svetlana on Sv Stepono had cleaned my shirts. She took the few Litas I offered her, slipping. them into her palm, folding her fingers over the rumpled notes. She was obviously in need of the money but seemed embarrassed to take it from me. She insisted I stay for tea. I sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, which in the daytime served as both sofa and wardrobe for her teenage son’s clothes. The windows of her cramped room were mercifully small. Only one pane of glass was unbroken, the others were covered with plastic bags from one of the new supermarkets in the city. I doubted she shopped there. I had given her one of the bags with my washing in. She had wrapped my washing neatly in brown packing paper tied with string. On the walls of the one room she had hung the three dresses she owned. One was a modern looking black-and-white dress with sequins patterning it. I commented on it.
    â€˜Mrs Pumpetiene gave it me,’ she said in Russian. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I agreed, trying to imagine where she might wear it.
    I had known Svetlana for a number of years. Often when I dropped off clothes for her to wash, we sat and talked. She did not speak much about herself but she had once told me her father had been arrested when she was a child by the Communist authorities for propagating Christianity and producing samizdat books. Her parents had been moved to Vilnius from Russia under the Communist government’s policy of mixing ethnic populations.
    In the small annex, which served as kitchen-cum-porch, water boiled on the electric ring. Svetlana poured it into a small, old, blackened samovar. She poured me a sweet tea, and sat watching as I drank it. It was too hot to do anything but take the smallest of sips. Svetlana’s cheek was, I noticed, slightly swollen near her left eye. She