I took Laura in my arms and held her tight. She had fallen asleep. I watched the boy as he wandered between the graves, arms high, chasing the flurries of snow. When I kissed Laura’s cheek, she opened her eyes for a moment. Looking up at me grumpily, she murmured something and then her eyes closed once more and she slept on.
When the service was over I handed Laura back to Daiva. The mourners picked their way carefully towards the gates of the cemetery, through the gravestones, the cold marble slabs, the trees whose leaves had still not been fully shed, the metal railings.
Standing at the foot of the grave, I looked at the picture of Vassily etched upon the gravestone. I squatted down. The earth was cold and damp beneath my knees. In my palm I pressed the amber, felt its smooth warmth against my skin, and, with the tip of my thumb, the sharp edge of the words I had engraved.
I dropped it on to the top of the coffin. It bounced on the lid and settled against a knot in the wood, above his heart. The snow had begun to fall harder, and already a thin white sheet had spread itself across the grave. A flake fell on the amber, but dissolved immediately. As I watched, a pale cold sheet formed, but the amber, warm from my palm, melted its own small space.
The workmen began shovelling earth into the grave. For some moments I gazed down silently, listening to the soft, rhythmic thud as it scattered heavily across the wooden coffin. The thwack of shovels biting into the wet soil, the grunts of the workmen, their knuckles blue with cold◦– the sounds followed me as I walked slowly back along the path to the gates.
Daiva was waiting with Laura in her arms. When I reached her, she slipped an arm around me. I pulled her close and we stood for some moments as the snow fell thickly around us. When I took Daiva’s face in my hands and drew her to me, her eyes opened a fraction wider and a small smile parted her lips. In her eyes I saw a kind of light.
Acknowledgements
For advice, support and encouragement, thanks to Almantas Marcinkus, Petras Marcinkus, Arunas Slionys, Dalia Slioniene, Arunas Stumbra, Loreta Stumbriene, Kristina, Gabriele and, of course, Lukas.
About the Author
Stephan Collishaw is the author of two novels, The Last Girl and Amber, both published as ebooks by Dean Street Press.
The Last Girl was chosen by the Independent on Sunday as one of its novels of the year. In addition, Stephan was selected as one of the British Council’s 20 best young British novelists in 2004.
Stephan has lived and worked extensively abroad, including Lithuania and Spain. Stephan is married with three children, and lives in Nottingham, England.
Also by Stephan Collishaw
The Last Girl – Chapter 1
I smoked the cigarette down to the very nub, until it almost scorched my lips. Through the blue veins of smoke I glimpsed her as she walked down the narrow alley. In her arms she held a child. My insides wrenched, suddenly, sharply. She held the child so tight against her breast. It was that, perhaps, that caught a ladder in my heart.
The café was called Markus and Ko. I had been reading the poems of Marcinkevicius.
I stubbed the cigarette out in the saucer of my coffee cup and struggled up, pushing my arms clumsily into my jacket, which tore as my fingers caught the thread of the lining. I hurried out into the cobbled alleyway, glancing down the street after her. The tops of the buildings were washed with brilliant sunlight, but at street level it was gloomy. She had not gone far. Behind me, from the bar where he had been standing, the waiter called out. I had not paid. I paused a second, snagged by the authoritative tone of his voice, but the young woman was walking fast. I followed her, my heart racing. She had reached the corner by the time I caught up with her. In the door of the café the waiter stood calling after me. Hearing the commotion, the woman turned, her dark hair sweeping across her shoulder as she flicked her head. The baby lay quiet in her arms.
I have an old Russian camera, a Triplet 69.3, presented to me by the university twenty-odd years ago on my fiftieth birthday. This morning I had picked it up as I left, struck by the quality of the light which nestled in the tips of the waking trees and caught in the tangle of church spires above the city. I stood on the corner, foolishly, with the shout of the waiter echoing from the stone walls, and the woman looking at me as if I was a madman.
‘Can I take your photo?’ I asked.
‘My photo?’ she said in Russian, a frown creasing her brow.
I put the camera to my eye and took one hastily, before she had a chance to refuse. I managed to get the baby in the frame too. It slept on completely unaware. My finger trembled as it pressed the shutter. She turned then and walked off at a smart pace.
The waiter caught my arm. I had not heard the sound of his approach as I stood watching her figure recede, my mind skimming back across the years, my chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath.
‘You didn’t pay,’ the waiter said abruptly.
‘I haven’t finished,’ I said, turning to him.
‘You have now.’ His hand thrust out for the money.
‘For kopecks you want to be so rude?’ I asked.
‘Just pay.’
I live in a small apartment not far from the café. Originally the apartment had been bigger, with three rooms, but I live on my own and what do I want with so many rooms? I sold one to the family in the next apartment. As soon as the money was on the table the young man was around with two friends, knocking a hole in the wall and sealing off my doorway with some crude brickwork. I’m not complaining, God knows I need the money badly enough.
Often I sit by the window of my apartment and look out over the courtyard. In the summer the trees canopy the whole area, and in the autumn they turn a beautiful bronze. On the benches beneath the trees I see my neighbours gossiping or knitting, or staring vacantly out into the world that has changed so much they no longer recognise it. Sometimes I go and talk with them but more often than not I just sit and watch from the window.
When I arrived home that day, my head was pounding and I found it hard to breathe. The excitement had been too much. I felt unaccountably distressed and a little bewildered by what had happened at the café. I sat down in a chair by the table for a while and had another drink. My hand continued to tremble and I spilled the hot coffee, scalding myself.
I have a small darkroom in the bathroom. I took the film and developed the picture of the girl. My fingers fumbled stiffly with the coiled film. It wasn’t a good shot. I had not had time to focus it properly and it was slightly blurred. It looked as if she was carrying a small sack of potatoes rather than a child. I pinned it to the wall by my writing desk. Her startled eyes looked straight out from the photograph, into my own. She stared at me with such confidence, such affront. I sat at the desk for a long time just looking at that poor image of the girl on my wall.
Later I took the creased book of Marcinkevicius’ poems from my pocket. As I read, I felt her watching me. That was a good feeling. It was a comfort to have her eyes on me as I turned the pages.
In the hours when I should have been writing but couldn’t, when the books lay unread on my desk, I stared up at the photograph of the Russian woman and her child on my wall. I might have been able to believe that my action was simply the result of a moment’s madness, if the same thing had not occurred a week later.