He can't form any words.
And then she says, "Do you still want me? I can go back. You do not have to have me if you do not want me anymore..."
He should be glad, overjoyed, exultant but first, there is crushing disappointment. This is Jenny. Jenny means pain. For Joe, Jenny means trying to be someone who he isn't. Jenny means worry. Anxiety. Dismay. Loss. Embarrassment. Jenny had gone and he feels he should have started over. Started with Gwenda. Started with someone who seemed to be a much easier person to be with. Such wild unrestrained overpowering fun.
And yet. And yet. Tears fill Joe's eyes. The idea that he might "not want her anymore". This is the girl he mourned for. Earnestly sought for. Tried new things for. Would go anywhere for. The story of his search for this girl is inked on his back. The indelible mark of his deep inside desire to be reunited with her is there. And now this girl is standing before him asking:" do you still want me? I can go back, if you do not want me anymore."
This girl - his wife - stretches her arms out towards Joe. He stretches his arms out to her. They stretch out over six hundred lonely days and nights. Over dismay. Anger. Fear. Tears. Despair. Loneliness. Over Gwenda. Over his resolution to 'start over'.
The two of them are tentative. As if even the touching would burst a bubble and in an instant, they might both vanish from one another.
They stretch towards each other. So far. So very far.
Joe feels her fingers touch his; cold, hard, trembling. Their fingers close around each other's. And hold. They draw close and embrace. It seems to take hours. At last they are holding each other and in each other's arms.
Joe tries to think back to when they last held each other. In London, that sunny autumn day, Long ago.
He bends his head to touch hers and the two of them are wracked with sobs. Not caring how this has come to be or why but only happy that it has.
So there they stand, in tears, in each other's arms, in the gathering twilight as a cool breeze plays around them and the light fades. And Jenny only looks away once towards the yacht which has vanished into the gathering darkness before Andrew puts his arms around them all to guide them back home, turning them away from the other people on the harbour side who have been watching them. He, his wife and Joe have only two thoughts at this moment, "Jenny, thank heavens you're back," and "Jenny where on earth have you been?" ABOARD АНДРЕЙ ТУПОЛЕВ
On board the yacht "Andrei Tupolev" (8) as it cruises through Stockholm harbor, Anatoly Kustensky is enjoying an evening glass of champagne when his wife abruptly gets up from the table and follows Vyera out on to the deck.
He is aware of a conversation, but takes no real notice.
His thoughts are on what they will do when they reach Tallinn, their next port of call but then, without warning, he hears Sveta's voice, magnified and distorted, through a the loud hailer. 'Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please'
Anatoly reacts at once. He knows the names instantly; McEwan and Palmer, Vyera's husband and parents in her former life. What on earth is Sveta playing at, he thinks?
He follows his wife out onto the stern deck, just as one of the crew, startled by someone diving from the boat, arrives as well.
Sveta is waving to three people ashore and pointing to a fourth figure in the water, swimming away from the boat ...
"Sveta, just what on earth is going on?"
"There." Sveta points to a swimmer who is striking out, cutting through the water, making for the shore. "There she is!"
"Who?"
"Vyera of course."
"Vyera?"
"Look, that's her parents and her husband. See? There on the quay." Sveta seems transfixed by the view out across the harbor. To Anatoly she sounds manic, completely unaware of the significance of what she has done.
"But Sveta ....?"
"Yevgeny was in touch. I knew they were in Stockholm and well, Stockholm is not that large, so there was always the chance of a meeting. And I wanted to do something good." Sveta is talking quickly, obsessively, glancing over her shoulder almost at every other word to see how close Vyera is getting to the shore. "Vyera gave us all we -- you -- wanted. It seemed appropriate, somehow. Being good feels rather more satisfying than being cruel. I have had enough of cruelty. Her collar malfunctioned and had to be removed. If I was more religious I would say it was a sign that her time with us was over. We have enjoyed her and now she must go back to her husband and her parents. After all, she will always love them. We cannot buy her love nor offer more than theirs."
Her words tumble out but the force of them proves to Anatoly that this is not just deranged rambling. Anatoly gazes across at his tough, decisive wife, open mouthed at what she is saying and what she has done.
He notices she is crying.
"Oh, Anatoly but I will so miss her. She was so much fun. It was almost like having another daughter. We should have had more children of our own Tolya. If only I had been strong and brave enough."
In the pit of his stomach, Anatoly instantly feels a tide of nausea break over him, followed by fear and dread. It doesn't take much to imagine the consequences of this; one of their slaves, leaping from their world back into the outside world. He is appalled. He says nothing but he's thinking, "Oh Sveta! Sveta! What on earth is this impulsive, reckless, romantic, dangerous thing have you done?"
And he's asking himself, what on earth he is going to do about it? HOMECOMING
Joe holds me all the way back to the summer house By the time we reach there, night has fallen and we leave the taxi and walk up the path, through the trees and into the house.
The smell is instantly familiar from childhood and many visits since then. The polished pine floors, the coffee and somewhere the sweet lingering aroma of quince.
Mummy is at my side. She offers me some towels, a T shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She says she will make some coffee and asks me if I want to shower. She's trying to cope with what must be an extraordinary situation with ordinary actions. They must all want to ask so many questions but none of them press. All of them seem to want to pick things up as if nothing has happened. I know that can't go on. Mummy keeps the conversation practical. "You must take a shower. You'll be so cold."
Must. I can respond to that. I nod, acquiescing, and take the towels. Joe follows me as I go through to the bathroom. He doesn't say anything as I go inside.
Do I want a shower? It has been so long since I was allowed to want anything for myself. Now I can just go and have a shower just because I want to have a shower. It seems wrong, somehow. Improper. Of course, they do not know yet. Their daughter and Joseph's wife is a slave. She is owned. Her place is to look to the needs of others and make do for herself with what remains.
And she still is a slave, not was a slave. I don't feel I have escaped. I do not remember Gaspazha telling me she was giving me my freedom. All I remember was Gaspazha telling me that she was sending me to Joe. I was a slave in Russia who belonged to Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch and Gaspazha Svetlana Nikitechna. I am still their slave but now, I have been sent to my husband and parents here in Sweden but I am still their slave and will still be their slave just as surely if we return to Britain.
The dress has shrunk against me cold and tight and stiff. In the shower it takes an effort to break its grip on me and peel it off. So, even the dress knows! It is almost as though the dress (their dress) is reminding me that I have not broken free, that I have merely been sent on another errand.
I do not linger long in the bathroom and emerge wrapped in the towels and carrying the borrowed clothes (Of course: how could it be otherwise? Slaves have nothing of their own) and go to Joe's bedroom. Actually, I suppose that is our bedroom. How strange that sounds. To have a bedroom of my own to share and not to visit the bedroom of someone else to serve them in some way.
There is something else I have to do now, but what? Of course! I shall have to get dressed! I can no longer spend my days naked. What a nuisance! As I turn to the bed I find Joe. He has stolen into the room. He looks at me and I at him. I see him gasp and put his hand to his mouth as he gazes at me.
"Jenny ... what has ... what did they ... Oh Jenny!"
"What's the matter?"
"It's your skin and ..."
He points to the rings closing my labia and gently traces his finger along the beautiful marks made by Gaspazha Sveta's whip. How I shall miss that whip and the other whips which have caressed my body. He looks at the slave mark on my breast, unable to understand what he sees.
I know they will press me with so many questions. I have no idea how I can answer them and not put Joe and Mummy and Daddy in horrible danger. Some will be easy like this, some will be much harder. "It's my slave number, Joseph. My number and my record on the Asset Register. I was disobedient and I was marked. Here ... and here ... and here -- oh, and here, to help me understand who I am. I am sorry Joe, if I am a disappointment to you."
"Jenny. Jenny. Stop it! Of course you are not a disappointment. I have wanted you for so long. What does it matter if you bring with you a few marks and rings? But we are going to find these people, Jenny. Call them to account for what they have done to you - and done to us!"
What is he talking about? Find Gaspadeen and Gaspazha?
They do not need to be found. I know exactly where they are. I have the telephone numbers of the Dacha, of Vitali and Alana's house in Moscow, of Gaspazha Neena'a mobile, and the email address I must use. I have all these in my head.
"Jenny, in the morning we will have to go to the Police. Tell them. Report what has happened."
"Report what has happened? Report what? What has happened is that I have been sent to you. Why should I report my Owners to the Police for sending me to you? Joseph: I have been sent back to you. Be grateful for what you have been given!"
He looks at me astonished, not understanding what I am saying.
Suddenly Mummy comes into the room. Her presence breaks the tension. "Coffee is ready. Come through to the lounge. Daddy has poured us all some aquavit." Another injection of enforced normality. She takes hold of my elbow, gently propelling me out of the room and away from Joe's incomprehension.
In the Family Room I can sit in a chair, not kneel on the floor. How odd it seems and in silence we drink coffee. Daddy hands round Aquavit. It burns down into my tummy. It begins to take effect. Curiosity begins to smoulder. They haven't pressed me to talk, for nearly an hour, but finally curiosity sparks into life. Joe breaks the silence, "Jenny darling, what on earth happened? Where have you been? How did you get to look like this?"
"No Joe, please." Please don't ask, don't ever ask. You must never ask."
There is panic in my voice and I am sure there must be panic on my face as I reply to him.
"Don't you see? This is a fairy tale. I was taken ... unwillingly ... You must always know that Joe ... unwillingly... And now I've been given back. It's a fairy tale. Magical. But fairy tales, especially Russian ones can have bad endings if you look at the magic too closely, or try to know and understand it too much. If you still want me, Joseph, you can never ask. And if you don't want me, I'll go ... but you still can never know
They take my words for confusion about the past but it's much more than that. It's uncertainty about the future. They told me I would be executed if I ran away. Can I ever be safe? What will I do when they send for me again? When they want me back? When I open our door, or go to work or go shopping and suddenly find Gaspazha Neena standing in my way, telling me my time here is over. I am to go with her. Back into captivity?
In time, the effects of the coffee and aquavit take hold. Their warmth and the events of the day conspire together. I can hardly keep awake. Joe leads me back to the bedroom and in seconds I am falling into a black void, or so it seems. I am sure that when I wake up, I will be safe in my cell on the Andrei Tupolev once more. Ready to resume my slavery. My vocation. EPILOGUE: A SWIM IN DREVVIKEN
The summer house stands on a small bluff overlooking the lake. (9) It is a classic of 1930's Swedish domestic architecture. The bedrooms are small. The kitchen is very "efficient". The bathroom is spaceous and the public areas where the family meets and enjoys each other's company -- are large and enjoy airy views.
In Stockholm, the summer sun rises between 3 and 4 am. It sends streams of light into the east facing bedrooms.
Jenny is awake early. In most of her mind she is still Vyerochka and is thinking about her tasks for the day. She is out of bed and into the kitchen to unpack the dishwasher, set out breakfast and make coffee for Joe.
Inga pads up behind her: she places her arms round her daughter, something she had thought she would never do again.
"God dag litten flika!" Good morning, little girl!"
Jenny starts, surprised that her mother had spoken to her in Swedish, her second - no, now her third language.
By force of habit, she replies in Russian, then English and finally Swedish
"I'm sorry Mamma, I thought I would be alone. I was going to wake Joe and then maybe go for a swim ..."
"Yes, Inga replies, Yes, do that. I will keep out of the way for you and make sure your father does, too."
She looks down at herself and across at her mother, cuddled in a long white dressing gown. She had forgotten that now and in the future, she would not be expected to spend her days naked. More unfamiliar normality.
Jenny goes back into the bedroom. She sits on the bed and strokes Joe's hair from his face. He opens one eye.
"Coffee?"
"Oh, er coff ... coffee, yes thanks Jenny that would be ... be great." It's a surprisingly normal question, a surprisingly normal reaction. She was away for so long and now she's back. She's dark skinned, muscular, whip marked, numbered, pierced and ringed and they are talking about coffee.
During the night Joe had been tortured by dreams in which Jenny kept disappearing, then reappearing only to disappear once more. He had found Gwenda but she never knew where Jenny was. He studies her for a moment. Her body is strange but that doesn't matter. They embrace; glad to feel each other's bodies once again.
There is a path through the garden that drops steeply between rocks to end on a wooden walkway. The path carries onwards through reeds and boulders to the lakeside. The early morning is very still and the lake flat calm, as a sheet of glass. Mist hangs over the water and obscures the opposite side.
Hand in hand, the two naked young people walk into the water. Naked? The lake side is secluded and this is Scandinavia, after all. For a moment it hurts. Joe makes no complaint as the cold water rises up his legs and chest. It reassures him that he is not dreaming; that his wife really is beside him again after all these months. There needs be no 'starting over.' Now they can start again.
For Jenny, the water is just as cold, but for her, the cold reminds her, underlines to her that her life has changed again; she is home; she is safe and yet there is - the sting of parting. What will become of the little baby Dmitry? His young parents Alana and Vitaly? Neena? Andrei? Julia? Sveta and Anatoly? It is true -- she misses them. She had begun to love them too.
Together, they strike out from the bank. Now the water has become a cool caress, easing tense muscles, opening their lungs to the morning air. Beneath them Drevviken vanishes into green, brown depths. Around then, the banks of mist drift mysteriously. Behind them, the summer house stands on the bluff, and a thin Swedish standard snakes and whips from a flagstaff in the gentle breeze: blue and gold, blue and gold.
In the lounge of the summer house, Inga Palmer gazes down over the garden and across the lake, to watch her daughter and son in law enjoying the freedom of the water, free at last from the anxiety of not knowing whether they would ever be all together again. She sips her coffee. Elation wells up within her. She doesn't care where Jenny has been or what has gone on, she only cares that her daughter has been restored to her. Can the summer house have ever seen a happier day? The End (of Tales from a Far Country, at least)
........................................................................................................................ Footnotes:
1 For further information about Кана́л и́мени Москвы, (try "Kanal Eemyeni Maskvi" ), in other words, the Moscow Volga Canal, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moscow_Canal
2 Dvoryanstvo: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_nobility
3 For further information on yachts built in Moscow, see www.timmerman-yachts.com We thought Anatoly might have chosen a Timmerman 33!
4 We thought The Central River Yacht Club might be suitable: http://central-yacht-club.ru/en
5 Readers up to speed with the world of Ballet will know that The Mariinsky has changed its name recently and used to be known at The Kirov. Actually, since its foundation it has been The Imperial Ballet, then The Soviet Ballet, then The Kirov Ballet and now The Mariinsky Ballet! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariinsky_Ballet
(6) Inspired by a flogger made by Heartwood Whips: www.heartwoodwhips.com The Heartwood Company may not be operational at the moment and you might want to try www.essentiawhips.co.uk who according to their website, can also produce whips in lots of colours.
(7) From a sermon by Henry Scott Holland, 1847-1918, Canon at St Pauls Cathedral, London
(8) Andrei Tupolev. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrei_Tupolev
(9) Lake Drevviken, Stockholm: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drevviken
Acknowledgements
Freddie and Phil would like to acknowledge the help and advice they have received from so many people who have helped them to write Tales From A Far Country.
Particularly we would like to thank all those readers that took the trouble to comment on the story as it went along -- sometimes we take notice, really we do -- as your feedback confirming that you are interested in and care about these characters and what happens to them is one of the things that keeps us writing.
Special mention goes to our editors and critics who were kind enough to read through an earlier draft and point out the weaknesses in the text and plot as well as directing us at some of the more horrendous continuity errors. Thank you Rob, Red, A and Anne Gray.
We are also grateful to:-
- the press officers at London Heathrow and Farnbouough Airports who gave advice on the operation of private flights to London and about medical evacuations by air ambulance;
- the Press Officer and the Ferry and Cruising Manager at Stockholm Harbours for their advice on mooring large yachts in the Port of Stockholm;
Share the love
English
