The Domestics keep everything very tidy from day to day so the main task is to set out the dining room table (eight places) and to make up the beds in four rooms. There are two double beds and two singles. That means two couples and two other guests staying and two more people joining the other guests for the meal.
There's a note telling us what will be served tonight, so that we can get the table settings correct. The menu is rather extensive for a Russian evening meal. The note says, "Ukranian beetroot soup served cold with sour cream, Caviar with blinis and more sour cream, Coulibiak (a fish pie with salmon mushrooms spinach and roasted buckwheat and fresh vegetables - 1) and finally, fresh fruit pavlova. There will be champagne before the meal, vodka between the courses, a white wine with the main course and an Italian Vino Santo to accompany desert -- and a single malt Scotch with coffee."
This is more like obyed the main meal of the Russian day which would normally be served in the middle of the day. Oozhine - the evening meal - tends to be lighter and less formal. I know this because I have had plenty of practice getting meals ready!
Perhaps there is to be some sort of celebration and the guests can only assemble together this evening?
When I come tp set the bottles out I see that the scotch is Laphroaig. I remember that I bought some, once. I bought some for ... for ... Joe on his last birthday or I should say the last birthday I was with him. Joe! That was his name. I had almost forgotten his name! How many birthdays have passed by now? I have no idea. In my mind, I am suddenly back at home with him. He unscrews the cap and pours two glasses. One for him. One for me. I lift the glass to my lips and I am met by a pungent, peaty medicinal tang. Then the taste. Smouldering, smokey, autumnal sensations spread across my tongue. The sip leaves a burning heat as I swallow. How that memory burns once more! How strange that it should be so strong, so potent and triggered merely by the name on a bottle. Have they done that on purpose or is that just coincidence? Because this time the memory still hurts. As I leave the bottle on the side table, I catch Neena looking at me.
"Vyerochka -- is there anything wrong?"
"Nyet, Gaspazha. Spaseeba."
"Vyerka! You are not being true to your name."
Oh how these people seem always able to look right through me! It seems she knows at once when I am lying. I should have been called 'лжец'.
"I'm sorry Gaspazha Neena. It was the whisky. It was the last birthday present I bought my husband and the memory hurts a lot. I did not want to trouble you with it."
"Ah," is all she says for a moment but then goes on. "That is strange. There was a girl like you who was married but I did not think Vyerka was ever married. In fact I am sure of it. No slave can be married, only owned. No, Vyerka was never married. If that had been so, her slavery would be too hard to bear. You must be mistaken Vyerka. Mistaken about being married. I am sure you will think differently about it soon."
I look at her bleakly. I understand what she means but I still cannot bring myself to nod in simple acceptance. I say: "Thank you Gaspazha. Of course slaves are owned and not married. I was being foolish."
I have not quite accepted her point of view. I didn't include the name 'Vyerka' in my answer. I wonder if she has noticed my tiny rebellion? The thin thread which joins me to my past. A thread which will snap for ever at any moment. THE UNEXPECTED PARTY
The day has moved on. It is late afternoon. I have been working in the kitchen, getting things ready for the chef. I am given a snack to eat and then sent off back to my cell.
I am alone at last. I am glad. I return to be with Joe and spend my time as an invisible companion to Joe and his wife Jenny on his birthday, the last birthday Jenny was with him. Jenny is very like me. So very like Vyerka. We might look the same, but she is married and Vyerka is a slave. I watch them as he opens his presents, as they make plans for the day, as they return in the evening and enjoy a whisky together. Can they see me? The time-traveller, watching them from the future, peeping at them from out of the shadows? Perhaps it is best for them to be unaware of my presence. What good would it do if they were to catch sight of me? A grim apparition who will bring pain and suffering into their lives. So I remain in careful hiding.
"Vyerochka?"
"I'm sorry Gaspazha. I didn't hear you come in."
"Get washed. Clean your teeth. And here, put these clothes on -- and also this. You are wanted." She leaves as suddenly as she appeared.
Getting washed is easy but getting dressed feels very odd nowadays. It is a long time since I have worn anything except the collar and the chastity belt - and she has given me perfume! I have not worn perfume in ever-so-long and thought that I would never wear it again. It's heavy and sweet and very sensual. Why are they letting me use perfume? Am I to be sold and this is part of the marketing exercise? Neena has also given me a simple but rather elegant black dress and smart black penny-loafer shoes. There is no underwear, tights or stockings but there are anklets and wrist bands for me to wear. They complement my collar but seem to be mainly decorative. Naturally, everything fits perfectly, even the clothes. The wrist bands and anklets are round in section, perhaps ten millimetres thick. One section drops out when you pull the band apart. This time, the minor segment is held in by the springiness of the material, but there are two tiny holes on the underside which look like the entry points for some sort of key. (2)
There is no mirror in my cell, so I have to wait for Neena's return to know if I am a suitably presentable waitress.
"Vyerochka! Excellent. You look charming. And you smell Mmmm! Your job this evening will be to help entertain the guests." She smiles as she sees my suspicious look at the word 'entertain'. "No, Vyerochka, not everything is about sex. But you are getting to be wonderfully slutty. I like you like that! You will be making sure they have drinks and so on. All the guests know about your situation, so there is no need for you to be embarrassed. We can trust you to behave?"
"Da, Gaspazha! Of course."
Perhaps this is another level of training? I must be through the basics and now they are trying me out in a more public space.
'We can trust you to behave?' she says! For goodness sake! What sort of an idiot do they take me for? But that's not really the point. I am a slave and slaves get instructions. Slaves should not think for themselves. These instructions about everyday behaviour keep me grounded and remind me what I am and for some reason also give me a sexual thrill. It's the reminder that I am a slave, a captive, something owned, property.
By the time I come up and into the main hall, company has clearly arrived. I am suddenly panicky: how do I start off? Neena is standing for a moment on her own. I walk up to her and gently put my hand on her shoulder. "Excuse me, Gaspazha but how should I greet everyone? Should I go down on my knees to Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensty and the other guests?"
She half turns to me and speaks over her shoulder. "No, rabinya, absolutely not! But well done, for asking. Fetch a tray of drinks from the servery and circulate in the drawing room. Introduce yourself as you offer the drinks. This evening, you are simply Vyera, not rabinya or rabinya Vyera , but if someone else refers to you in that way, you should acknowledge it. And of course if anyone has anything they need of you; then you will fulfil it. Understand? "
"Spaseeba, Gaspzha Neena."
"When you address others, all the men are Gaspadeen and all the women are Gaspazha."
"Spaseeba, Gaspazha Neena."
"Finally, drinks. There will be wine and soft drinks. You will see why."
"Spaseepa, Gaspazha"
"Pazh'alsta, Vyera."
Gaspazha Neena, for the first time ever, since my training began in earnest, has called me Vyera! The adult form of my name. For goodness sake why? What exactly is happening this evening? Presumably some sort of intimate dinner party for friends of Gaspadeen and Gaspazha Kustensky and whilst they want the convenience of my slavery, they do not want the fact of it to disturb the repose of the party?
As instructed, I circulate in the company. Seven happy relaxed well adjusted people - and one slave. There is a woman close to my own age. She is pregnant; it looks as though she has not very long to go. She is there with her husband. She as a strong resemblance to Gaspadeen Kustensky, so perhaps it is his daughter? There are two other men. Office types, I would guess.
"Everyone knows your situation," Neena said. So why does no one object? It's not as though slavery is recognised as a legitimate employment option? I suppose they do not object because they must all be involved in my abduction and enslavement.....
Gaspazha Sveta bears down on me. "So nice to see you again, Vyerochka. I enjoyed your presentation at the University. Are you enjoying yourself here?"
What??? But then, I am supposed to be "adapting", so I say - "Spaseeba, Gaspazha. Well, it's all been very different from what I have been used to and, er ....."
(Oh! Idiot. What are you saying?)
"Yes?" Curiosity is alight in her eyes
"No, I'm sorry I shouldn't."
"No, you should. Tell me."
"Er, well I (I cast my eyes down, afraid to look at her) I still think about people ... people I once knew. I wonder if they are all right."
"Yes, of course you will. It must feel a little like a bereavement, but you will have to accept that life for you has changed and those that you once loved will cope without you. We in Russia have had more experience of this sort of thing than many people in Western Europe: the Stalin period and then the war ...."
"Yes, I understand, Gaspazha. I only wish them to have some closure, so they could move on and forget me"
She smiles and lays her hand on my back as she speaks. Her hand presses me against her. Almost a motherly gesture. It seems very comforting. I smile and relax. She smiles back and gently pushes me towards the pregnant girl. "Now, Vyerochka come and meet Alana and her little one!"
Alana laughs and joins us.
"Hi, she says. "You're Vyerochka, right?"
"Yes, that's me."
She laughs again. A soft friendly bubbly laugh. "Here, meet the baby." She takes my hand and places it on her bump. "What do you think?"
"Ah ... ", I rub her gently " ... ah -- oh! It moved!"
"Moved?" She laughs once more. "When doesn't it move? Recently it's been wriggle, wriggle, kick, kick, squirm, squirm all day. What do think about that?"
"Must be tough," I reply. She nods. I go on. "Your English is very good ..."
"Yes. I was at the LSE for a spell." (3)
"Aha. I was at Warwick." (4)
"Warwick? OK, I went to the castle but that's about it." (5)
Neena appears at my shoulder. "Excuse me Alana, but duty calls for Vyera." The sudden snap back to the reality of my situation is bizarre. I am jolted from exchanging small talk about universities to the reality of my slavery.
Alana seems not to notice the shock that I feel. "Ah, there you are Vyerochka. A slave's work is never done."
I smile. Confirmation that 'they all know about your situation' "Da, Gaspazha", I reply and even manage to add a smile, "Absolutely true."
Neena continues. "Check that the kitchen staff are ready to serve and then ask everyone to come into the dining room."
"Da, Gaspazha, but we are one guest short."
"No we are not." She replies as though she cannot understand why I have said what I said. "Don't you realise? You are coming to dinner." THE TRANSFORMATION
I am completely taken aback! Me? Eating a meal with my Owners? It seems out of place. Wrong, somehow.
I cannot think of anything worse. I am placed between Sveta Kustenskaya and Neena.
I don't want to be here. I want to be on my own. In my cell. Alone with my memories, whilst they are still present, before I forget them all. Before I lose touch with Jenny and there is only Vyera.
Instead I have to be polite, to follow the conversation (still very difficult) and to eat what is now unfamiliar food.
The food is rich and filling, but at least I only get water to drink. Nevertheless, I start to feel very hot. I'm very conscious of everywhere that the dress touches against me. There is an uncomfortable itching behind my knees. I want to stand up and stretch and breathe some cool air.
It's like being a little girl once more, having to attend a big family meal. I am trapped inside with people I hardly know, listening to conversation that I mostly do not understand.
My bum passes from tender to itchy. The smooth leather of the chair becomes sticky with perspiration from my buttocks and between my thighs and I begin to itch. I'm aware that I am shifting my weight from one leg to the other. I see Alana looking at me as if to say, 'what on earth are you doing?' but then Neena whispers something to her and as she glances back to me, she gives me a knowing smile. Understood, forgiven and humiliated, all in a single smile.
At last! At last we reach the coffee and whisky. By now I don't care whether the Laphroaig will conjure up painful memories or not. The whisky and coffee simply mean that this new, refined torture will soon be over. I even find my mind wandering to happy memories of my abject, raunchy no-holes-barred sexual servicing of the Mongolians. Of Batachikan and her colleagues. I would rather be with them than be here.
Gaspadeen Kustensky gets up. For goodness sake, surely not toasts? But he looks directly at me. "Vyera: in times past it was normal for slaves to take the name of their owners. I believe in the UK there is a black singer called Elle Macpherson and if my memory serves me correctly, the Clan Macpherson comes from Scotland where the people are white, not Africa where the people are black!" (6)
Laughter ripples round the table at this heavy handed, politically incorrect, humour.
Actually, he has got the name wrong. He means Kiesha Buchanan. (7) I glance over at Alana who smiles back and with the narrowing on an eye and a slight turn of the head, reminds me not to correct her father. I make a tiny nod in acknowledgement that her message has been received and understood, but I do like it when they get things wrong. Even trivial things.
Gaspadeen Kustensky is still speaking: " ... and even though the details of traditions change as the years pass it is appropriate for people who live in Russia to have Russian names.
"I would like to introduce at this point Mikhail Barisyevech Yamskoie, my lawyer who has something to say."
"Ladies and Gentlemen. Over the past few weeks, I have been at work on certain legal formalities. Now I can tell you that from midnight tonight, the Authorities recognise that Vyera will be legally accepted as Vyera Antol'yevna Kuznetsova. Congratulations!" (8)
There is applause from the guests surrounding the table; Neena leads towards me and whispers " Congratulations Vyera! There are lots of famous Russians called Kuznetsov, for example Svetlana Kuznetsova is a famous tennis player and Admiral Kuznetsov ... " The applause and murmurings is stilled when Gaspadeen Kustensky rises again and this time introduces "..... Volodya Alexeevitch Simeonovsky from the Office of Inwards Migration of the Russian Government. Volodya Alexeevitch....."
Volodya rises. He is the second office type. He clears his throat. "Vyera Anatol'yevna Kuznetsova, your status has been examined by my office and I can tell you that you fulfil the criteria for Russian Citizenship. I have been authorized to tell you that you are now a citizen of the Russian Republic and have been issued with a passport -- which I have here."
He hands a small red book across the table to me. Its cover is guarded by the double headed imperial Russian eagle and inside, there is my photograph showing my bald headed image set beside the official passport rubric, in flowing Cyrillic. I even appear to have signed the document.
I am dumbstruck.
Sveta Kustenskaya leans across and gently gathers up the documents "There!" she says, her arm comfortingly around me once again, "I don't think you have anywhere suitable to look after these, so I will keep them for you."
The assembled company rises and raises their glasses towards me in a toast.
In that moment I have never felt more alone and vulnerable. I began the meal as an abducted English woman and by the end of the meal, I have had my real name and my real nationality stripped from me. Paper is the curse of the modern age and now all the official paperwork right around the whole wide world will know me as Vyera Anatol'yevna Kuznetsova, Citizen, Russian Republic.
My abduction and my transformation are made complete. Complete not with beatings, not with sexual service, not with a new language, not with transportation from my home but with paper. Implacable, irrevocable, official paperwork. THE EXOCET
Anatoly was pleased -- and relieved The party had gone well after all. It had fulfilled all his technical expectations of it; Vyera was delightful, she had behaved absolutely correctly and Sveta was her usual charming self and left no clue about any other feelings she might be harbouring, the feelings she spat at Anatoly early that morning.
He climbs the stairs to their second floor room and as he enters, hears a bump! bump! bump! coming from the en suite bathroom. He opens the door to find Sveta fully dressed but standing in the shower, banging her head off the wall, with blood streaming from a cut above her eye. Each time she strikes her head, a bloody stain widens on the cream wall tiles.
He rushes over to her, gathering her into his arms and pulling her out if danger. He takes his handkerchief and holds it over the wound, the sort of wound a boxer might suffer and inflected as Sveta battered her head against the wall.
"Sveta! Sveta! Stop! What is the matter? My love, what on earth is the matter?"
Sveta turns towards him as though registering his presence for the first time. She seems to sag as she sees him and slumps back against the bloodied wall of the shower, sliding down until she's sitting on the floor. She holds her head in her hands, then buries it between her knees, streaking her skirt with blood. Finally she looks up at Anatoly. "It's the girl!" she blurts out, "The girl. Vyera. She wants closure! The only thing she wants is closure for the people who love her!"
Anatoly blinks in response, still not understanding why his wife is behaving like this or what she means.
"I want closure! Me! After all these years, I want closure but it will not let me. It's always there. It always follows me around. It knows it was my fault. I let them take it away and it was my fault, my own fault, my own grievous fault!" Sveta delivers her speech, wracked by sobs. Anatoly has to listen carefully to understand exactly what his wife is trying to say.
Sveta is in a tight sobbing bundle on the floor. She makes to strike her head again. Anatoly pushes his hand between her and the floor of the shower, pulling her to him and holding her tightly, her blood smeared across his white evening shirt.
"Sveta: you must tell me. You must tell me what is wrong ..."
She looks at him with wild eyes and nods. "Yes," she says, "Yes. Then I must go. When I have told you, I must go. I am not worthy of you. I let them kill your child. So if I tell you, I must go."
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