UNDER MY SKIN

“Do you know him?” I had asked of Katherine, not aware she had yet met

our new roadie trucker, before the obvious (to her) reply,

“Of course not.” But there absurdly lay a doubt there, for she had smiled at

this stranger, and it seemed, although the notion was obviously fantastic, that Catty

had waved too. The cab was already too distant for me to read its number - for

“Vincent” could have traced its owner's address, if I had so asked, - but I managed

to see a distinctive red tailgate. I was sure I could recognise it again. I had wondered

how Copy Cat Brat had drifted so far away from the (band's) chosen path, to be so

far off track in the East of London, and to be so near the college where Katherine

had so recently lived.

I had then said to Katherine, “You know, I can see you marrying a trucker.”
 “What?” she had replied, obviously puzzled, for the passing vehicle had

been a cab. “But I love you.”

I nodded, but Simone's voice flashed though my mind,

- what is love she is not the one carol is the one

'What is love?' I ask Penel- Carol Marhia.

Simone says she's called “Carol”. And I believe her, I hear tinkling bells

when I hear that name.

- she is the one

She smiles. 'You love me. Do you remember?

Now?' And the truth is (shamefully? - but how can it be “shamefully”,

when I do not recall?) no, not yet. Only flashes, as these stories unfold, as these

pages reveal diary dates long past. I wish I did, for even though the months must

have passed, as the colour of the sky has changed, I still like her, unknown as she

is to me, as those yellow bells tinkle softly in my brian when I see her. Her smile

is warm, eyes creasing, as if remembering other, older, happier times.

I ask, 'How was Christine?'

'Ah well, I haven't been to see her yet.'

'No? You might be disappointed.'

'Um, maybe.'

Did Penelope ever keep in touch with Christine?

'They're dead aren't they.' But it is not a question I ask, merely acknowledge-

ment. Not yet acceptance.

 And she nods slightly, a reticent nutation, pursing her lips. She mumbles,

as I struggle to hear through the sounds, as if the triad of church bells shifts softly

from minor to major, 'Sometimes, it's hard to let go. But you love me. You said.'

I said.

And Penel- Carol Marhia looks at me as if I have spoken.

September, the diary says.

Reads.

It had been a shock, to hear from, and even more so, to see her again. She

had been vaguely attractive at college, from what Penelope remembered, and

- and how could one politely put it? - statuesque, when there had been an obvious

adolescent desire, the animal lust, not then the emotional maturity of an adult love,

but it was all such a long long time ago, and as such slightly irrelevant really, but ...

she had let herself go, hadn't she. Not even a question mark required. Never mind,

an hour out of her life wouldn't make any difference. She remembered that Christine

had also always been so miserable, prone to frequent lachrymal outbursts, lamenting,

even now, the lost of that first love, the love of her life. She did seem to eat a lot,

even then. And no exercise. No wonder that boyfriend of hers dumped her. The one

she was always whingeing on about. After she'd followed him from the States he

went on to become, she'd said, a famous pop singer or something. She couldn't

remember his name. Something ridiculously ... hagiological. Sure she'd never met

him in fact. Just seemed like it, the way Christine talked about him incessantly.
She had eventually (and not too soon enough, Penelope thought) married somebody

else, in what would be called, she supposed, in contemporary parlance, a rebound

romance, but the marriage had been rarely mentioned in their subsequently ever

rarer telephone conversations, her new husband being a music lecturer somewhere

(but not as musical as “He” was) in the East of London, before perhaps the inevitable

separation, or was it divorce? Perhaps he too had got bored of hearing about her ex-

boyfriend who adored Elgar but had preferred instead to have become a pop star.

She knew now, after the meal that other night, - and when was that now? - that

Friedman had been her husband, but she had been too polite to mention it - the

stolen oboe was the clue, slightly marked as the one in Saint's house had been

(although Russell had corrected her, that it was a clarinet she was looking at). But

to look at her now? Where had that attractiveness gone? Thighs of an elephant,

Penelope thought. It was such a shame. And there was the shame that those thoughts

had coalesced in her head. She looked down at her own body and gently traced a

line down to her hips. At least she had kept her figure. It didn't take much, a little

exercise, and in own her case good sex. She felt embarrassed at the memory

that at one time she had found Christine vaguely attractive, but that might be just

another imagined memory. As if some pervert was writing his imaginations of her.

She wouldn't put that past Chomiac. He seemed to keep notes on everything. It was

a shame Brian hadn't taken “Unsolved” off him - some of those stories were quite

interesting. They walked on through Holland Park. Fortunately it was a beautiful

day, so it hadn't been a complete waste. Of time. But she was getting slightly ...
what was it? Restless? Or just bored?

'Tell me,' she asked, almost tentatively, 'did you ever get your oboe back?'

Christine stared at her, this question from nowhere. 'He stole it.'

'Who? Your husband?' She shrugged her shoulders, shaking away the irritation.

'No, no, no - He did.'

And with Christine's inflection upon “He”, she knew at once she had meant

her imaginary pop star friend, which was of course ridiculous. She vaguely

remembered, but couldn't be sure as this was such a long time ago, that perhaps

she had said she'd given him a clarinet, as a birthday present.

'The clarinet?' she mumbled, almost as if not sure if a statement or a question.

Christine continued to stare at her, now surprised at her memory. 'Yes. And

then he stole my oboe. Walked across the road and smashed the window and stole it.'

Penelope was puzzled. What was her ex-boyfriend doing across the road?

When he was somewhere else being a pop star? 'You saw this?' she asked. 'Didn't

the police do anything?'

'My husband, then, wouldn't report it. Just kept saying, “That fucking Elgar,

that fucking Elgar essay.” '

'Paul Friedman?'

Then there was a grunt from Christine as she stepped back in surprise at

hearing her husband's name, that Penelope would know it. She slipped into this

fetid puddle. Up to her ankle in this putrid liquid. It was a strange puddle, not really

water as such. It stank. Christine tried to move her free foot to give herself a better
footing, but she was too heavy, she fell to her knees. And now she, Penelope would

have to help her, but was she strong enough? To heave her up? She might fall over

too. And did she want to, anyway? But she had no choice.

'I have another story for you. The final one, I think.' I point to my diary, 'For

it seems I am coming to the end of pages. An end, of my time.' The manuscript, my

diary lies already at the foot of the bed, the earlier struggle to place it there to remain

forever untold. As was my struggle to walk outside. To smash clocks, to break time.

'You might like it.'

Penel- Carol Marhia stood and walked to the bed, picked up my book. She

flicked through the pages, the dense texted days passing instantly, the lines pointing

towards a cold October, but still September. Even if not really. Eventually she

stopped, looked at a title. 'Under My Skin?' she asked. 'Isn't that the song? The

one you used to sing to me? Our song?'

'A classic.' I affirm. I try to hum, but fail, the irritating bells always in a

different key. 'But this one plays a different sort of melody, in a different sort of key.'

She sings quietly, # Deep in the heart of me .. # as if sadly remembering

another time, before flicking again through the pages, the cascading images wording

a life, intermittently stopping to read a few words here and there. The style was

different. Denser. Love Letters and Chance Be a long time ago, it seemed. As was

the Passion of a dated springtime. Yes, Under My Skin lay more in that style it

appeared.

'I've made in my brain, Korsakoff.'

 'Brain? You keep saying that - you mean Brian. Brian Korsakoff?'

'No, Nikolai.'

'Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov?' she smiled, happy now at my remembrance.

'You always liked that stuff! You liked # May Night # .. and # The Snow Maiden #

You called me the Snow Maiden once. Remember?'

'Is it May now?'

And the cobweb sadness falls upon her face again, almost as if white clouds

evaporating to grey. She was also about to ask, where did you get the time to write

this? But of course, at the moment, he had all the time in the world. But there was

doubt in her voice as she answered, 'I shall look forward to reading it.'

'I hope you do.' I tapped my nose, to smile knowingly. 'Simon did a good job.

With her life. Had she lived.'

She looks puzzled. For sometimes he also said Simon when he meant Simone.

As if he still didn't want to mention his dead school girlfriend, that the letter, the

vowel “e” would make any difference, to the girl's destruction in, of that time.

'Simone? Yes? I'll read it when you're asleep.'

'I know that you do.'

'You'll have to say goodbye to Simone soon. You know that?'

- no don t leave me say hello

carol of the bells is right simone there is always a time

to say goodbye i don t know why you said hello when i must say goodbye and

it was you after all who said she is the one

 SEPTEMBER: UNDER MY SKIN

Nikolai Korsakoff stood, arms folded across his chest, staring through the

large bay windows. His gaze lay unfocused upon the distant Malvern hills, the

trees in the field opposite, upon branches gently undulating, embracing the cooling

autumn winds, clutching the last dying warmths of an unseasonably warm October

before winter. More like early September, but then, no diary to check. But his

thoughts lay elsewhere, a flurry of questions. Perhaps the train had already arrived

at the station? she was already in the taxi sent by him? driven by that girl who

always appeared so familiar, the cab already turning into the driveway? Questions

asked he knew pointlessly, futile imaginations until events materialised, but asked

without choice, they scurried through his mind, these feckless ants, but, and as he

so easily convinced himself, they filled the passing minutes, his anxiety consumed

the wasting moments. A fingernail caught a snag in the wool of his pullover as a

finger fretfully, rhythmically traced an erratic seven - a three and three and then

one beat pattern, he freed it, but the nail was torn, it would need cutting. Three

years? Five? Seven? He could not possibly imagine how she had changed. He

remembered merely a girl, not quite a young woman when she left. Not then in her

prime. And finally, to his apprehensive relief, the soft chugging of a diesel engine

further along the path. The vehicle became visible as it turned into the distant

driveway, at first a bleak, black scuttling insect, before rapidly assuming the form

of a taxi. It drew slowly to a halt. Korsakoff could see the form of her figure in the

rear compartment. She appeared smaller than he expected, his memory had distorted
her presence, as if his remembrance of her vivificality had somehow actually

enlarged her physical frame in his mind. But his wife had been tall too, and what

would now be called 'statuesque', - a word he had learnt soon enough upon his

arrival in England - and perhaps it was her presence when she had been alive that

had dis/con/torted his recollection of the daughter. Korsakoff pursed his lips, after

all, the mother and daughter held so many familial similarities, if not merely physical.

Korsakoff turned away from the window and walked through to the hallway. He

hesitated at the door, disguising his apprehension by pulling down of his pullover

over the belt of his trousers. He had not forgotten how when as a child she used to

chide him over his choice of clothing - 'Your books sell,' she had said, 'and are well

read, but your covers' and she had then touched his arm as she had spoken, fingering

with affected disdain the fabric, 'collect dust.' For a fourteen year old he had been

impressed with her ironic use of language, to the extent of himself using the quote

as a character trait in a short story. That collection hadn't sold so well. Korsakoff

turned the lock of his door, slowly pulled the brown stained timber frame open. The

cold afternoon chill brushed past his face: arrival.

After Korsakoff had paid the taxi driver (yes, it was strange, he thought, the

way that woman always smiled at him, and to be here, so far out in the country, and

yet still not to know her name - perhaps one day he would be interested enough to

ask), they embraced, at first cautiously, warily, a token acknowledgement of their

meeting, but then, that initial reticence fading quickly, as if, surely, bygones must be

bygones, warmly.
 Korsakoff carried her two suitcases into the hallway; she followed him.

Inside, the suitcases deposited by the staircase, they turned towards each

other again, he as in disbelief, that they were together again, that she had returned

at all, and she in her turn smiled wryly, faintly amused that he should so savour this

moment. She had changed, he could not fail to realise, from a young girl of sixteen,

to a fully mature woman of twenty three. And the change wasn't purely physical, he

thought; the final metamorphosis included an air of practised assurance. She looked ..

he grimaced at the pun that had floated into his thoughts ... she looked consummated;

the experience of university and her later life had served her well. And Korsakoff

knew the reason why. It was, after all, partly the reason that had prevented her

earlier return to the familial fold. Had she not taunted him in earlier days? with her

convoluted versions of her imagined truths? Korsakoff could not forget those short,

terse missives addressed to his wife, telling her of her daughter's exploits at

university, and in later times, mostly, it had seemed then, of a sexual nature and with

much older men, normally her lecturers. Lecherers, he had sourly thought at the time.

His wife had not understood his silence, nor the termly cheques he had paid into her

account - sums of money greatly in excess of the usual student grant. She had leant

how to handle men very young, he thought; she had possessed from an early age a

termagant maturity. He took her by the hand and attempted lead her through to the

drawing room. She withdrew her hand quickly to then look around, appraising any

change. He asked, tentatively, 'What would you like to drink?'

She looked at him, an initial hesitation. Then, answered, attempting a

nonchalance, 'Oh, a vodka and tonic.'

Korsakoff watched her run her fingers through her fine red hair to draw her

fringe to one side. A habit from her childhood. A pointless tic as her hair fell back

into place within moments.

- this is not me

no you must say goodbye simone

He walked across to the drinks cabinet and opened the glass partition, to take

two glasses, giving each a cursory wipe with the cloth. She was looking at his back

he knew, waiting, now that the welcoming rite was over, to refer to her mother, but

Korsakoff pre-empted her assumption of an explanation with, 'Ice?'

She nodded behind him. He walked through to the kitchen, glad to temporarily

escape the pretended innocence of her gaze. He realised he did not know where to

begin, for there was not the familiarity of the word “friends”, where a conversation

might be continued after several years without interruption, as passing acquaintances

might meet again in the street, to each offer the other condolences, at the passing of

a mutual “friend”, and it seemed inappropriate to begin with her mother; too formal

an approach - but it was the ostensible reason she had returned. But not having seen

his daughter for seven years now he guessed an informal chat would be his best

move; to talk about themselves first, of their current interests (not that t/he/y seemed

to have any in common, he thought) and preoccupations (to bury the dead?), about

how their respective lives had developed in the few years since they had separated -

before mentioning, explaining the death of his wife. Korsakoff walked back into the
lounge with the tray of ice. He began, again, hopefully, 'Did you have a safe journey?

I seemed to know that driver from somewhere.'

Simone smiled, dismissing his gambit. 'Yes? Carol? Student flatmate from

college. And still working out how to say things, hm?' She had seen straight through

his futile ploy, as he knew she would, he had never underestimated her intuition,

and intelligence. Korsakoff wished he had the strength now to retaliate, but in truth,

age mellows. He turned away from her, to crack the ice with a small, seemingly

home made, silver hammer. Having prepared the drinks Korsakoff walked across

the room and offered a glass to her. She took it and sipped the liquid. She could wait.

Korsakoff could but try, 'She .. crashed a car, you know.'

The murmured words had an undesired effect. Bitterly she retorted, 'The

way you said it! Always that same, calm, fucking indifference in your voice! It's

hard to believe that you're talking about my mother - your wife! Anyway, I don't

think that's how she died - that's not what I've heard - I think you made that up!'

She lapsed into silence, temporarily spent.

She had not changed, Korsakoff saw. The unwittingly delivered verbal taunt

having found its target he w/c/ould now calmly wait until her anger had subsided.

'I was talking of your mother.' he explained, 'not my wife.' Then affecting a deliberate

sycophancy, 'After all, there doesn't seem any point in pretending, does there? You're

an adult now - '

'I was then, god damn it.'

' - and you'd be the first to know .. to understand what that

relationship was really like. Hardly the eternal matrimonial bliss.'

'How gently you put it. I can see your wedding anniversaries were full of

cheer. But as you say,' She bowed her head, a gentle flirtation of mock agreement,

before swigging the the remainder of her drink. 'I'd be the first to know.' She held

up her glass, directing, 'Another, please.'

Korsakoff ignored the request and walked away to sit opposite her. It was

time to attempt a new track, 'Well, Si, how it is going?'

“Si” broke into laughter. Her father's attempt - the first time he had ever,

as far as she could recall, abbreviated her Christian name - at jovial conversation

was pathetic. It was just not his style. 'It's going well, Nik.' She raised her glass

again but this time let it fall to the floor. It did not break, Korsakoff, learning from

the vehement experiences of his wife, had long ago replaced all cut glass with a

cheaper but more durable selection of tumblers. The two people, father and daughter,

family but as yet still strangers, momentarily stared at the fallen vessel. She too (as

his dead wife had, the first time after the replacement, that destruction was not

inevitable) seemed surprised that the glass had not shattered, but Korsakoff did not

explain. He felt strangely guilty that their meeting had not began well. They had

slipped all too easily back into their old habits, as if the sum of seven years had been

but a moments pause, the lifting of the needle from a groove in a record that when

replaced continues from the same strident bar. He had thought that the destructive

conflicts of the household were not tristachyous, but singularly the result of his

wife's antagonism. He still believed this, as if denying the consequences of actions

past, but to break out of the slavish social rituals in which they had housed and

chained themselves and their emotions, was, he knew, to prove difficult, if not

impossible. He had already failed once today, already. 'I'm sorry.' he said.

Simone buried her face in her hands with a mocking, 'God, this is so .. pitiful?

Isn't it a bit late to apologise now? And what for? There's no need to, on any score.

I know she was impossible to live with. You know she was impossible to live with.

You should have divorced her years ago.'

'It was you we stayed together for.'

'Well you needn't have bothered on my account. I'm far hardier than either

of you realised.' She smiled slyly, 'Or perhaps you realised, after all.'

'Cunt.'

'Fifteen love. Let's see how many times you can insult me in, say ..' she tapped

her wrist, calculating from an imaginary watch, tap tap tap tap tap tap. Tap, '.. one

hour? I would have thought you were rather good at abusing me.'

'Fuck off.'

Simone leant forward, as if adopting a mutually conspiratorial tone of voice.

She asked, quietly, 'Were you drunk?'

'No,' he replied. Korsakoff felt indifferent to this continuous charade of hers, -

and how many years had she claimed sexual abuse now? - but Simone still persisted.

'Disappointed are we?' she smiled salaciously. 'Oh yes ..?' She stood and

walked over to him. She brushed imaginary dust from his lap before clambering

unto, to sit astride his legs. He sat rigidly, a stone statue resolutely determined not
to fracture, to fall prey to his daughter's attempt at eliciting anger. 'No welcoming

cuddle now, eh?'

'Improper.'

'That's a pity.' Simone slid off him, to stretch out across the brown sofa to

then lie back and rest her head upon his thigh.

'You sound almost disappointed.' he said.

'Well,' she explained jovially, looking up at him, 'after my experience now,

with men these last few years, is it really seven? I can tell you I prefer them drunk -

not too drunk mind, after two scotches is about right .. well, doubtless you know

all about that.'

She was still taunting him he knew, hoping to arouse him from the indifference

of past years to present anger. But she would fail, he reassured himself, as she had

always failed. But Korsakoff at once realised his self-deception, as perhaps she saw

in his face, she knew what pain she caused him, and also that he had no defence to

erect. And Korsakoff had occasionally wondered whether his daughter had every

right to be merciless, for he had been drunk many times, in that time before, but

never to the extent she claimed. He raised her head from his thigh and stood up,

drink soon enough finished, and needing, not wanting, another. Simone stood too,

to walk away from the sofa. Glass refilled he remained standing, distance equalling

sejunction.

'What can I say then,' he asked, attempting to begin again, 'if an apology is

not .. '
 'Oh say what you like. I see you haven't lost your sense of assumed decency.

Must have learnt that over here. Would you like me to tell you about my lovers?'

Korsakoff turned away, already preparing another second glass. 'Thank

you, no,'

'No? Somehow I thought you'd have been interested. All good material and

all that. But then again I suppose you wouldn't be surprised at the type of men one

can buy. With the money you sent me.'

The ice cubes fractured into small shapes as he scooped them into the glass.

'I'm glad it kept you in such good company.'

'Well, as you can appreciate, what with you being the famous foreign writer,

and all that, what must go through people's minds, you know - what with that dirty

book you wrote - dogs barking as you're fucking, well, raping. Weird or what? - you

could do another one, the poor little rich girl, bought into silence by her lascivious

father.'

'Not one of mine, I think. Anyway, lascivious is feminine; applied to women

only.'

'Not necessarily. But you attempt to digress. Deliberately I know.'

Korsakoff sat again opposite her and sipped his drink. 'You made up .. told

them? About ...? ' Korsakoff wasn't sure where his daughter was leading him. 'I don't

believe you.'

'Oh yes, you'd better believe it! To one, an analytical - in all senses of the

word, daddy, - psychologist, whatever that is, I explained my father was an foreign
underworld figure, prone to breaking people's legs if they so much as whispered a

sentence of his sordid history aloud. And this was how he treated his friends. You

should have seen him run, after he had fucked me of course, - I insisted he stay to

complete the job. I informed him 'daddy' wasn't so lenient with the young men who

couldn't keep his healthy daughter sexually satisfied. Poor boy. And I believe that

during the day he researched sexual motivation in rats. For his postgrad degree that

is, not in his spare time. Somewhat ironic I thought.'

Korsakoff smiled in spite of himself. 'How appropriate. And as you say, ironic.

But did you ever tell them the truth?'

'That was the truth.' she insisted. 'But to another I said father was a lecherous

old fart who was taken to abducting and raping young nurses, - not merely fiction

then, and consequently his daughter. Apparently, I explained patiently, after bringing

the young man round, my father found extra sexual stimuli in this unusual interpret-

ation of fatherhood. And that he subsequently paid the consequences by being

blackmailed.'

'How did that one take it?'

'He said, “I wondered where you got your money from.” He was an accountant

after all. A professional interest. And very good at copying documents, if you know

what I mean. They all thought it was too obscene to be true.'

'It is.'

'Yes, I suppose it must sound it.' She pointed to the glass on the floor.

'Another drink then, since I noticed you didn't pour me one?'

 'Help yourself.' Korsakoff replied. He was not going to be dictated to.

But Simone made no move to raise herself. She spread her arm along the

sofa, as if stroking the brown leather slowly. She wondered how old it was, fading

now, but comfier, through age. Shame about the coffee (?) stains, leaving faint white

outlines, like miniature salty tide marks. Was it older than Korsakoff himself? Must

have been a family heirloom, to bring it all the way from Budapest.

Korsakoff sat waiting; he could sense she was preparing for another attack.

It came quickly enough.

'How's your work coming along father?'

And she knew, of course, that he had not written anything of merit since

before she had left. And years before that. Cunning little slut.

Silence.

Then, Simone, having judged the moment, 'Another drink, then, please,

Nikolai?'

Korsakoff stood to pick up her glass from the floor. 'Another vodka and tonic?'

She nodded. 'No need to rinse out the glass.'

As he turned away she stood and walked to the television. A video recorder

and a selection of tapes lay on the floor beside it. She examined their labels; they

were concerned with interviews of her father's work; interviews dating from earlier

years; an anodyne television adaptation of that story; a more realistic feature film

version. 'A bit incestuous isn't it?' she asked.

Korsakoff turned sharply, then sensing her meaning replied, 'Useful to see
how people interpret your work.'

Simone stood; he handed her the refilled glass. 'Your one work. Do you

watch your own interviews much?'

'Very rarely.'

'Yes it's funny, isn't it,' Simone stroked her chin, affecting to muse, - for why

then, were these tapes on the floor? - 'how so much can be talked about, from one

little book.'

'It wasn't little.'

'No, I suppose not. But just the one, wasn't it.'

'But you watched them?' Korsakoff countered.

'Yes I did. Well one of them. Some time ago now. You were quite good. You

kept your cool. I was in bed at the time.'

'How appropriate.'

'With some young man I'd convinced that you were a highly paid up member

of the K.G.B. and really was a sinister, subversive element in society.' And for a

moment she thought as if Korsakoff did indeed look guilty.

'Your story telling matches mine.' he muttered drily.

'My story telling greatly surpasses yours.' she corrected.

'Oh yes?'

Her challenge might hold substance now he knew. 'Then who was the young

man you were screwing?'

'Paragraph two? When he wasn't playing piano at the Barbican, rehearsing

The Dream of Gerontius from what I remember, he was was working out in some

rowing club down the road from my college. During the day as a hobby he studied

rocks, I think. Had a thing about “deep time”. Whatever that is. Well built though, -

the way I like them. Funny name though, Chumeak.'

'You go to bed with anyone?' he mocked.

'If it's useful to me, yes. I quite enjoy blackmailing people. It's quite ..

stimulating. Had gorgeous blond hair though, that one. Shame he was a tory. Wanted

to stand as an M of P, I think. You liked Chopin didn't you?'

'Polish pianist, yes. I preferred Lizst. But your stories are improbable? Though

perhaps .. hold possibilities. Have you ever thought of taking up the literary scene?

Or would that clash with your illegal activities? I can't promise that it pays as well.'

'It didn't seem to clash with your illegal fucking.'

Korsakoff sat down. 'Yes, your imagination is .. amazing? A suitable adjective,

I think.'

Simone Korsakoff remained standing. 'You think I have potential then?' She

added, with a mocking insolence, 'Daddy?

'No.'

'No doubt I could always guide you.'

'No doubt.'

Later, her father in the kitchen, Simone knelt by the television set, again

examining the labels upon the video cassettes. Her father's earlier description had

been adequate, but the inner labels gave greater details of his works; the date of
transmission of his film, the director; the length of the television interview - she

would look forward to again watching the latter, her first viewing having been

somewhat distracted by the amorous attentions of the student. She smiled as she

recollected. He hadn't actually been politically orientated in any way - but it made

for a good punch line. Daughter of a Lefty sleeping with a Righty. Knew it would

annoy her father. And she had, as she well knew from Brian, - she hardly needed her

father to convince her, surely he should know by now?! - literary potential. She re-

stacked the cassettes, no longer interested; the plot of Korsakoff's work (for there

was only one really, as the minor efforts didn't count - the journalistic essays merely

being “fillers”) she of course knew intimately. Korsakoff had left the room to prepare

supper, and the occasional brittle clatter of enamel upon metal reached her through

the closed partition. Simone sat back, straightened then splayed her legs. She began

to exercise, slowly touching first the left knee then the right. # Lefty, Righty # she

repeatedly sang quietly. She thought of their earlier meeting that day, it had passed

much as she had expected, her father displaying a cautious reticence, as if wary of

admitting her imagined past. Perhaps he had been drunk then and not actually

remembered. But she had not expected each an abrupt physical decline, he had

appeared to age far more than the seven years that had elapsed since they had

previously met. He now also appeared resigned, defeated, as if any semblance of

hope had long been extirpated from him. And thinner, gaunter. No longer Heming -

way then. But if not looking like him, then who ... Simone could understand her

mothers effect upon him, the constant years of altercation whittling him into the
sterile numbness - but now she was dead surely he would have .. should she

suggest ..“rejoiced” ? at his new found freedom? They had not yet talked of her

mother's death. The cause of the accident she now knew, by his choice of indifferent

callous words, but the topic lay still ignored; the umbra of guilt deliberately

circumambulated; and where did that guilt lie, in the dark dead core they left

temporarily unlit, unexplored, seemingly content to initially preamble their way

through the penumbral shades of a social reintroduction? They would talk of her

mother, she would insist, but yes, later. Yes he had aged, she thought. His hair was

shorter - his fashion of wearing longer hair having passed, and perhaps not through

choice, but inevitable natural decline - and his stomach now visibly protruded from

his slimmer frame. But in one respect he had not changed; he still drank indiscrim-

inately. He intoxication he hid well, she judged, even if its effects had its inevitable

physical consequence - he looked a decade older than his fifty or so years.

Simone's callisthenics finished she stood and walked across to his writing desk.

She opened the curved lid, sliding it into its recess and drew out the writing panel.

'Escritoire' she attempted, that French accent always elusive. Perhaps she should

have been more particular in her lovers. A slim sheaf of stapled papers lay upon the

walnut surface. Simone picked up and read a sheet. It appeared to be the rough form

of a short story. A date was scribbled in the top left hand corner. Seven years ago?

She held the paper closer. Her reading of the faintly pencilled date was accurate.

He hadn't written anything for seven years? Almost as if nothing had been produced

after she'd left. So she'd been his creative muse after all. She turned a sheet over
and read another, choosing at random a paragraph. Unlike his physical appearance,

the paragraph was precise, terse, pithy. It was, she knew now, having read many of

the manuscripts Brian had brought up to their flat, good. She smiled, the contrast

between the public persona and the private person had always, evert since the early

days of her adolescence, as she meandered towards an uncertain maturity, amused

her; her father the acclaimed novelist, a refugee after a notorious defection

(subsequently followed in the tabloid newspapers by the inevitable celebration of

freedom as opposed to totalitarianism, and of the virtues of its own free press), the

marriage to the beautiful but now not so young débutante (but was “debutante” the

word, when it was eventually discovered by the press that Coralie had been married

before, but that her husband had died from, - and could this really be possible? in

this day and age? - radiation sickness? And that she had put her son into the care

of an old part-time nurse and piano playing spinster? Well, free piano lessons, they

supposed - but they'd never found her, only a report of her death, falling down the

stairs in a burning building, surely a story there, you would have thought? - or him,

the disappeared son) Coralie, who had helped secure his release.

The novel about the kidnap and rape of a young English nurse against the

background of the political turmoil of the totalitarian regime that followed (that

perhaps his 'escape' was another final nail in the coffin of oppression; “to let air in”

as a journalist implied with a curious metaphor as he had praised Korsakoff at a

literary award; then inevitable decline, thought Simone now, to minor works -

those short essays, the literary prizes fading into history, but nominated anyway,
unofficially, it was said (for it turned out only to be a false rumour spread by a

friendly tabloid journalist Simone had subsequently “met” ((at Brian's place?)) )

for the Nobel prize. The one with that funny name. Before 1989 his work had been

inevitably banned, leading, in those much earlier times, to his fleeing Poznan, then

to Budapest, and again, as “they” relentlessly followed him, Prague. But his story

was still illegally celebrated in his home country of Poland. Afterwards, after The

Fall Of The Wall, he had returned to Poznan, asking for his secret service records to

be returned to him or destroyed. “They went missing.” he was informed, which was

not helpful, as Korsakoff wanted all his historical secrets burnt. Public veneration: a

private gehenna. Korsakoff, a decade later, any affection of his wife towards him

having long been eaten away by the earlier cancer in her womb, embodied in the

birth of their only daughter, referred to those earlier far off days in an uncompleted

short story. Simone held the slim sheaf of papers in her hand. She turned another

page, stopping at the penultimate paragraph. She read: Her one good deed, of her

lifetime it would eventually transpire, was to secure his visa by talking to, and then -

as she was later to persistently taunt him - 'fucking her friends in low places.' The

same tongue that had apparently so effortlessly freed him was soon to bind him to

an acrimonious marriage; she instigated a duel; at first tentative, inchoate fumblings

towards verbal predacity were the norm, but soon, Chomiac's weaknesses sought

out, exposed to her vitriolic glare, caustic ridicule became the rule. But the diatribes

held one beneficial consequence for Chomiac; he mastered the profanities of the

English language extraordinarily quickly. Simone pursed her lips and placed the
papers back upon the table and slid the drawer into its recess, leaving the lid open.

Chomiac? That balding reporter friend of Brians? Or was it of his wife, Penelope?

Chomiac had once been a pianist apparently, he'd claimed, but she couldn't believe

that. Could have been the older brother though, of her, a, once fancy man. He had

looked at her strangely, as if seeking recognition, at some party or other. But she

was used to that by then, men, ever hopeful. Chomiac. A curious and inappropriate

choice, she supposed. Sounded Polish though. But her mother, promiscuous? That

didn't sound right, either. She knew her mother had been married before (from what

she remembered she had been told as a child), to a scientist who had died from

radiation poisoning. But was it right to slander the dead?

Simone heard her father making his way back into the room. Korsakoff

entered, his back propping open the door, carrying a large - this time a real, a

properly bought one - silver tray. And he professed himself to be a socialist yet,

she thought, - life is not without its contradictions. At least he had expended

considerable effort in preparing for her return.

'Cucumber sandwiches?' she asked smiling.

'No.' he replied. 'We are, after all, foreigners. Chicken curry for the likes of

you and I.' Korsakoff placed the tray on the floor, carefully lowering himself until

he knelt upon the carpet. He struggled to cross his legs. She wondered why he was

making this effort - to attain his idea of a bohemian affinity with her? But she knelt

beside him anyway, accepting his offer of a plate.

'Thank you, Mr. Chomiac.'

 Korsakoff looked up sharply, his realisation now immediate at his opened

escritoire, but a shocked hesitation before replying. He could not believe her

effrontery. She had gone through his papers? Already? 'Christ.' he murmured, his

anger bitterly suppressed, 'I didn't realise I should have locked up every god damn

document prior to your return.'

'I just wanted to see it you hadn't written anything, as you'd said.'

'And now you're satisfied?'

'Not really. I pity you. A fine talent, almost genius, lying dormant, wasting,

going to seed.'

'Almost genius.' Korsakoff snorted. 'I've heard some superlatives in my time -

what a revelation! but almost a genius! Ha!' But then, in an abrupt contrast, Korsakoff

asked, quietly, with a curious, to Simone, plaintiveness, 'Why do you like to see me

suffer?'

Simone sat surprised at the bluntness of the question. Evidently she had

touched a raw nerve, somewhere. She hid her uncertainty. 'Yes.' she answered calmly.

'And why not?'

'A moment's indiscretion? Your imagined indiscretion. To be stacked, held

against me for years? And you weren't hurt, so why pretend it? only an hour ago

you called yourself hardy. You just delight in using people - men. Don't you.'

Simone angrily dropped her plate unto the silver tray. The rice, stained brown

by the chicken sauce, oozed off the plate, like curious grain encrusted snails seeking

their oblivion in the engulfing base of the salt and pepper cellars. She stood, then
pointed, the index finger accusing him, 'Hark who's talking! Miss Under-Age Killer

of the year! What you don't seem to realise,' she drew her head towards Korsakoff

and lowered her voice, inversely accentuating her cynicism, 'Sugar daddy, is how

fortunate you are to be here at all. I could have had you nicked any day, and even if

I failed to get a conviction, your writing career would suddenly become,' she clicked

her fingers dismissively, conclusively, 'kaput.'

Korsakoff remained squatting, continuing his pretence at eating. 'Really? I

would have thought, what with the proletarian's instinctive love of anything perverse,

that then they would buy my books, rather than boycott them, just so that they could

sit back in glorious self-righteousness and lament at how, as they had known all

along, terribly corrupt that Johnny Foreigner author was.'

Simone walked away to sit on the sofa. She regretted her action of dropping

the plate, the meal had looked appetising, and at least he had made an effort - her

hunger would now go unfulfilled. 'Point taken.' she reluctantly acquiesced. 'But it

wouldn't be much fun, your remaining meagre royalties accruing while you rot in

jail.'

'Ah, my sweet and not so innocent daughter. Follow your argument through

to its logical conclusion. What would you live upon whilst I was away?'

She smiled salaciously, then a single lick of her lower lip with her tongue.

Korsakoff now recognised a practised prurience. Upon who else had she exercised

her sexual charms? He wished he did not know, but she was already answering his

question, 'Oh, I've thought of that daddy, don't worry; I could always sell my body.'
 'Haven't you already?'

'Or I could sell my dreadful, squalid story to the tabloids. Imagine the dreadful

headline.' Shaping with her hands Simone blocked the imagined titles through the

air, 'International Author Abducts Virgin Offspring. As you'd said, they would lap it

up!'

'They used to love me when I criticised the Soviet Union, but as soon as I

referred to the evils of England the accolades turned to insults. I should have

mentioned my daughter.'

Simone watched him closely, her anger now dissipating. She smiled with a

wry amusement at his indifferent cynicism. 'I didn't know you were that famous

daddy.' she gently taunted.

'No? After I conjectured that, perhaps, that misnamed word socialism had a

chance of success? of doing good? - they leapt upon me like a pack of wolves.'

'Yes,' she tapped her head, as if affecting a mocking thoughtfulness, 'I

remember you came in for some ... rather adverse criticism.'

'And naturally my supposed vast income was mentioned, as it a vindication

of the Western world.'

'Naturally.' Simone stood up and made towards the two large wooden doors

that led into an adjoining room. She turned the handles, they were locked. She tapped

at the carved oak panelling, affected her childlike voice, 'Please let me in, yes?' Then,

as an adult, she turned towards Korsakoff. 'Is the piano still in there?' He nodded.

'Tuned recently?'
 'Not for a while.' He gestured towards his writing table, the lid still open.

'The key's in the left hand drawer.' He could not resist a final taunt, 'You mean you

didn't find it, when you were searching?'

Ignoring him Simone fetched the keys - another one on the string she noticed -

had he actually said “keys”? - and turned back towards the doors. The key still fitted

easily, despite, it seemed, not having been oiled and unused for some time, and as

she turned the lock, swung the doors open, her piano lay revealed. 'The old faithful's

still here then?' She pulled out the stool and sat down. 'What shall I play for you

daddy dear? A Two Part Invention?' Simone turned towards her father sitting now

on the sofa, partially visible beyond the jamb of the door. Korsakoff shrugged, he

did not care. But Simone began to play, regardless of his indifference. She still

played well, he knew, much better than in his own earlier musical efforts (although

in truth he had always known that in those far off days he'd basked off and in the

reflected glory of other musicians, especially those early visiting English ones - that

had been a coup), and executed the piece with precision. He shifted his body, so that

her arms became visible. But she was speeding up, he judged, losing the controlled

pace required for such an Invention. (Korsakoff had thought of Chomiac at that

moment too, yes, he had been very good, and it was a shame, about the dog bite.)

But as if hearing his thoughts she realised her error and slowed again, towards the

end, before the final cadence. Still, she had played well - certainly nearly up to

concert performance standard, or perhaps it was an opinion held because she was

still, after all, his daughter. There had been talk once of his daughter pursuing the
instrument professionally, but the local teachers, the few that there were, hadn't

taken to his wife's refusal to pay in advance, or cash in hand. And always demanding

a receipt. Coralie had, over the years, developed an annoying habit of collecting and

storing bits of paper. (Korsakoff had often speculated that these were somehow, in

her mind, reminiscent of fragments of his early poems, but felt vaguely insulted by

his own comparison with shopping lists.) And, even more crazily, collecting milk

bottles. Almost an obsession it seemed. That one he had never even attempted to

begin to understand. He had thought it curious, as she herself had claimed to have

been a music student somewhere in London, long before they had known each other,

that she had never once played for him. One young graduate, then in his early

twenties, but possibly even younger, Russell ... something - a sort of royal sounding

surname as far as he could remember, - had addressed his wife, and Korsakoff had

been present, as, 'Undoubtably the rudest, possibly the most ill-mannered person it

has ever been my displeasure to meet. Again.' Korsakoff, leading the young man to

the door, puzzled by the word “again”, and as if somehow in attempting to appease

the wounded pride of the insulted piano teacher, had muttered, 'I admire your balls,

young sir, but I'm surprised your skull's still intact.' And then later that evening,

Simone having ran off to her bedroom, sulking because her new best friend had

been dismissed, his wife had said the most curious thing; “That I treated him like

my son!” Which of course she had not, but Korsakoff became aware of her guilt in

abandoning her son in earlier times, apparently, she'd claimed, leaving him in the

care of an old piano playing spinster, as she pursued her own dreams of a musical
career at a provincial college. He had begun to have doubts above Coralie's sanity

then, and later, as she had muttered, “He followed me to college you know.” To

Korsakoff's obvious response, “Who?” For the insane reply, “My son. He's stalking

me.” Korsakoff smiled thinly at the recollection, for the madness was now gone.

Perhaps a different kind of happiness now lay in store. He asked, 'Do you remember

that piano teacher?'

Simone stopped in the middle of the next Invention, number fourteen, the

semitone ascent creating an azure optimism, 'Yes.' She smiled too at the memory.

'Russell .. I wished I'd stayed with him. As a student that is. Too bad mother didn't

like him. He was, um, very relaxed.'

'When he wanted to be.'

'Especially after shagging me.'

Korsakoff grunted in disapproval. And ten (or was it twenty? thirty?) years

on Korsakoff wondered where the teacher was now. Had his surname really been

“Tudor”? Didn't sound right.

'Sorted him out with another girlfriend though, after I moved out.' Simone

was continuing, 'Carol. One of the flatmates we were sharing with. Something ..

nice about her. I'd had a better offer. And why I'm here actually.'

'Now you're a marriage broker?'

'No, just paying my debts.'

Debts? Korsakoff didn't understand, as Simone didn't seem like one to fulfil

“obligations”. And perhaps this teacher was now in some public house recounting
to his pals how he once told the famous author's (now dead - but didn't she deserve

it?) wife to 'Fuck off.' History would inevitably exaggerate any anecdote. He

murmured, aware of an irony, 'The author Korsakoff would know all about that.'

Simone heard him and stopped again. 'What was that?'

'Reminiscing dear, reminiscing.'

'Ah memories,' she retorted, 'memories.'

Yes, memories. He felt guilty, and had felt guilty, even then. But pressure

was brought to bear, by the not so secret police, and he had been weak. After the

girl had escaped he had been arrested, but no charges had been brought, as, since

the nurse had been returned to England by the British Council, she was no longer

present to present charges. But they knew he had been guilty, and had subsequently

been forced to spy upon foreign bands who now toured Poland in exchange for his

freedom. He knew why they hadn't returned his documents, decades later. There

was more shame in spying to him, than the 'raping' of the girl, for he had wanted to

marry her. Yes, there lay a guilt there, for very soon after the 'incident' he had invited

(or had he been 'instructed'?) Chomiac's friends over to tour Poland, this young band

to display to his fellow Poles the new English music, only to have to inform the

authorities where and when they were playing, and ordered to follow the lead singers

around - yes, there was the shame of that, for he had quite liked the lead singer

(although he didn't seem to say much), with that funny name, Szcent? It seemed a

strange name, even for an Englishman. (“Smells bad?” he had asked, to looks of

bemusement - perhaps his English had not been good, precise enough, unlike now,
then.) But his own band's name, The Plastic Penguins Of Poznan, was a stupid name

too, as the alliteration only made sense in English. Well, he had had to learn his

English somewhere, as another band member Mmm (? - really strange, those English

names) had invited him over to London to play in a local bar. Had even joined in as

his own drummer couldn't make it, exit visa permission refused. But that band had

toured his country, and his memory told him that that had been their first foreign tour.

They had made history for themselves, then, for in those (and he remembered them

as dark) days: Poland was a foreign land, as is the past. Yes, they had done things

differently then. He wondered where they were now, for they had gone on to become

very successful, - but that life was so long ago; it was as if the stories that played as

a cinema inside his mind might indeed be fictions. But he knew them to be true. He

wasn't even sure if he had even ever seen Chomiac again, after his dog had bitten

his wrist, his piano playing days over, then. Never been forgiven for that. Understand-

able. Korsakoff knew his daughter was watching him. 'And what will you do now?'

he asked. 'Any job interviews lined up? How will you grace the world with your

presence?

Simone re-began the Invention, but spoke over the notes. He could just about

hear her speak. 'Well, ... ... understand that .. not ... bothered ... ... it .. know ...

you'll take ... of me, .. now that mummy's gone ... ... could take .. of you.' The

contrapuntal melodies continued their weaving under Simone Korsakoff's deft

fingers.

Korsakoff remained silent.

 Realising he wasn't going to reply she finished her interpretation of the Bach

Invention in B flat major (a lot slower than normal, but effective nonetheless,

perhaps she ought not to slow down, or was that, too, natural ageing?) before

continuing, 'We're going to live together in our cosy matrimonial bliss. Unbeknown

to anyone else of course. Not even to my agent boyfriend, Brian. A good idea?'

'You weren't joking, were you?'

'Of course not.'

'But you're an adult now. You won't find it easy to convince others you were

coerced, if you're still living with ...' And yet who was she living with? he wondered.

Some agent or publisher called Brian, she had said. They, “dead ex” wife and him,

had had a meal with a Brian and Penelope once. Long time ago though. Surely

not, him? How would they have met? Again? Simone was only a child when Brian

was handling his affairs. Simone did not respond, there had been a difficult passage,

those bars seventeen and eighteen, which needed practice. She started again, then

that easy perfect cadence; a dominant seventh to the tonic, the F7th to the Bb, the

definitive ending: resolution. Yes, much better, slow ..

'To an extent that's true.' she now continued, dexterical concentration no longer

required, 'But I'm don't want to live with anyone now, as Brian's not that interested

in my stuff, more in yours, it seems, and of course I still have certain documents,

relating to our financial arrangements that would, let us say, swing the balance in my

favour.'

'Of course.' he replied. Korsakoff thought back to everything that had been
written between them, the letters, postcards. Legal documents? There had surely

been nothing that could possibly incriminate him, for there was nothing to

incriminate him. A termly cheque could hardly be described as “quietude money.”

'Documents?'

Simone smiled predaciously, jubilant in her supposed victory; she had him.

Sycophantically, 'Why the letters, daddy. The one's you sent me, full of remorse,

explanations of guilt, admissions.'

'But there was nothing. What ..?' Realisation. He stared incredulously at her.

It was impossible, too easy to disprove. 'You forged letters? You forged letters! Ha!

But anyone - everyone will see that my writing is different - nothing like yours!'

Simone stood up from the piano, still smiling he noticed. She walked back through

into the main room. Quietly, preparing to announce the culmination, the twist in the

tale of the story, she faced him, deliberating the soliloquy. Ever the actress, he

thought. Almost a wasted talent.

'Oh, I didn't write them father, I found someone else, an expert in the field.

Neither did he ask questions about the content of the letters, he was quite happy

with the money I gave him. You gave him. Or did I use my body?' She placed the

back of her wrist against her forehead and sighed wistfully, 'So long ago - so difficult

to remember ..'

Korsakoff affected to snort. 'I don't believe you!' Another figment of your

fertile imagination. I will want to see those letters of course.'

'Of course. Only photostats though. I think I'll keep the originals in safe
keeping. I think they're going to be published as a book; “Letters From My Father.”

as, “How To Blackmail Your Lovers.” isn't going to be taken. I was very insistent

about the removal of the exclamation mark - wanted to be taken seriously.'

'Taken seriously? Oh very good, very good. And that's in the bank as well, eh?'

'A secure safe deposit box.' she agreed. 'Funnily enough, in the closet as it

were.'

'God wasn't Freud wrong!'

'Well I don't know - I couldn't imagine any son of yours finding my mother

attractive, but you're not too bad yourself, though.' She giggled. 'Flattered?'

'Nasty little creature aren't you.'

Simone's laughter faded quickly. She spoke coolly, an affected calmness,

'It's what comes of being assaulted.' she said. 'One has to take precautions.' She

hesitated, before finally adding, 'Social contraceptives.'

'Very precise, literate, apposite.' Korsakoff had not finished his meal but the

verbal antagonism had proved too much for him, there was no rhythm in his eating,

which would inevitably lead to indigestion, he leant forward to place his plate upon

the debris left on the floor by Simone, then stiffly rose from the sofa, propping an

arm outwards to stabilise himself, to then stand and balance upright. He walked

towards the drinks cabinet. He needed another drink, for the day had already been

too long, and it was still only late afternoon. He had no idea how long she intended

to stay. But the chore had to be done. He asked, 'Would you like to see your mother?'

'Why not? The old hag won't have changed that much.'
 'She's a bit quieter now. It's more .. peaceful .. somehow.'

'I can imagine. Yes, let's do that. Tomorrow? Looks like rain.'

Today would have been preferable, Korsakoff thought, to get it over with,

but he looked out to the distant trees swaying wildly, not now as if waving but

drowning him, as if the coming storm was to warn him of Simone's arrival, of her

disturbing presence, yet it was true, very windy, dark, heavy cumulus clouds, many

hanging pregnant black balloons about to burst. Yes, looked like rain. Almost a set

for a Shakespearean Tragedy. 'Yes.' he reluctantly agreed, 'looks like rain.' And as

if confirmation was needed of his consent he walked towards the windows and drew

the curtains, although of course knowing this action was futile' that the shutting off

of the view of distant trees would hardly quietude Simone. Well he could but hope.

Twilight was fading quickly into night. The room fell momentarily into darkness

before Simone heard the click of a light switch and the room lay now lit by the lamp

upon his writing desk. She could smell the dust burning on the copper shade

encasing the bulb. A dry, pungency, acrid - the lamp having not been used for a

long while it seemed. More evidence of the lack of creative activity, she thought.

She watched him walk to the drinks cabinet, pour two more glasses, then Korsakoff

handed his daughter her third drink.

'You're certainly trying to get me plastered. Going to take advantage of me?'

He replied indifferently, emotion spent, 'You obscene little runt.'

She raised her eyebrows, a gesture of mock surprise at the coarseness of his

reply. 'My, harsh words from the man himself!' But she took the glass and sat on the
sofa. Korsakoff sat opposite, as if to keep his distance. He sipped the clear brown

liquid. He was drinking too much she knew, far more than usual - such was the

consequence of Simone's return home. His fingers felt numb. He pressed the broken

nail into the ball of his thumb, was a strange sensation, of feeling nothing. Not even

the blankness of white. But the brown colour of whisky had been his salvation

throughout the years he thought, as if needing an excuse.

The two sat in silence lost in their own thoughts. Simone was tired. It had

been a long day's journey, back into the night it seemed - and she was quite happy

to go to bed as soon as was possible - and did she really care, had she ever cared,

whether she was polite? That it was still only early evening? Their initial meeting

hadn't gone well she realised - but it could have been a lot worse. For another day,

perhaps, she would taunt him, and then she would relent. Besides, she could make

him write again, just like in the old days. Keep Brian happy. She had an idea for

a story, and knew she could make him listen. Simone thought of her mother. When

the telegram had arrived from her father she had dismissed it, throwing the slim

strip of yellow paper into the waste-paper bin; her parents were already dead, as

far as she was concerned. So it certainly wasn't any sense of filial obligation that

had prompted her return. So what then? she asked herself. Just the whim to please

Brian? Well, he paid for her upkeep she supposed. And ... curiosity? she wondered.

Had he ... decayed ? since she last saw him? And he had. She looked across at him

now he sat with his eyes closed, glass perpetually in hand. At least, she imagined,

her mother had died fighting - well, talking - to the end, before giving up. He was
asleep, she judged. She finished her drink and stood up. No, she would not disturb

him - let him grasp his fretful sleep - no, not to let glass fall once again to the floor.

She slid off her shoes and stepped silently into the hallway. She picked up the

smaller of the two suitcases and began to ascend the stairway. Her room would

probably have remained unchanged since she was sixteen. Daddy would have seen

to that. The posters would have perhaps faded, the yellowish tinge revealing the

ephemeral nature of the popular (and he had always asked, “popular?” with a

curiously disdaining but funny inflection) musicians they depicted. Perhaps even

her childhood dolls would lie untouched. Simone walked along the passageway

to her room. She turned the handle, not even locked now it seemed, so she couldn't

even lock herself in (no, the other stringed key didn't fit), to recapture her childhood,

her cradle cocoon from the outside world. As this then locked room had protected

her from the outside in earlier days. She turned the handle and pushed the door

slowly to. She flicked the light switch, and stepped into her past.

But Korsakoff was not asleep. As soon as Simone stepped into the hall he

had opened his eyes. He felt relief at her departure, the constriction he'd felt across

his chest, almost a physical discomfiture, relaxed, albeit only momentarily. It was

a pain that had disappeared upon the realisation his wife was dead - a sense of

freedom from anxiety. He grimaced bitterly, until her death he hadn't understood

that the dull ache that had lain in his gut was anything but tangible. Was he only

going to be allowed a few days respite from an interminable malaise? He looked

down at the silver tray, heaped with the mess of a squandered meal. Such a waste,
but he no longer hungry enough to finish. Her impetuous temper remained unchanged

it seemed, along with the other undesirable qualities of her personality. And she had

expressed a wish to stay? Christ! Korsakoff held the glass out at arm's length and

dropped it unto his plate and watched it slowly settle into the unfinished rice, almost

as if a small ship listing upon discoloured mud. He smiled thinly, 'It's true, they really

are unbreakable.' But it was not an opinion he held of himself. And tomorrow, and

tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow And

tomorrow. It was a shame, he thought, but of course pointless speculation, to wish

to go back in time, as if things might be different, th/at/is time around. Hadn't

Ouspensky even written such a story, The Strange Life of Ivan Osokin, only to find

that nothing had changed, when he'd lived his life again? Tomorrow, tomorrow.

Always our lives lived in the imagined future, of what might happen. The curse of

Oedipus, and of humanity; to attempt to deceive fate; for if Laius had not consulted

the oracle, wishing to cheat fate he would not have abandoned his son, Oedipus, to

be tied by the feet to a tree, only to be, decades later, 'fatefully' killed by him.

Korsakoff sat upon the sofa, thoughtfully wondering of the day's events. That people

still believed in the notion of eternal recurrence - quite madness, to suggest that we

are doomed throughout eternity to relive these days, when the permutations of

chance are endless, beyond calculation: three wheels turning, the second twice the

speed of the first, the third; the first's speed divided by Pi; that straight initial chalked

line will never meet again. And that was just three wheels. Or three orbits; even

Newton had been defeated, in his calculations. No, “recurrence” was bullshit;
“eternal recycling” was more like it. He had imagined what it would have been like

to see his daughter again after so long, only, of course, their again meeting hadn't

turned out like his imaginings - he might have well read a trashy tabloid (for his

former friend Chomiac had started upon his second career, - yes, he did still feel a

little guilty there - on such a magazine) astrology titbit that read (and he w/c/ouldn't

have read his own 'star' sign, not knowing it - and now that he thought about it, it

was the English nurse who had brought such a 'comic' with her from England),

“Tomorrow is going to be a busy day (For yesterday wasn't.)”. He had been

fascinated in younger days, not by the possibility that astrology might predict

future events, for that was absurd (that piano teacher of Simone's - Russell? Tudor? -

had been into astronomy, he remembered, so had some grasp of true - and what was

those words he used? as he'd picked up a very old copy of New Scientist Korsakoff

had brought with him from Budapest, as if it could (im)possibly be returned to

Chomiac - “Deep Time?”? “Deep Scale”?), but by the journalistic devices used to

propagate nonsense. The ways people had to make a living ... and some became

famous (and infeasibly wealthy) because of the rubbish words they wrote. The divine

comedy, Korsakoff thought; In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was:

Tomorrow. For he had awoken that very day to find another broken day, his mind

having long ago destroyed any notion of “circular time”, and his demon had arrived,

in the shape of his daughter. Korsakoff no longer looked at horoscopes, not even for

amusement, for it became ever more pointless as you aged, with less time left. Only

a certain finite amount of events yet to happen, and they would not be new ones.
Shame to waste time on yesterday's printed words. He stood, walked to his writing

desk, took a sheet, a pencil. Still, he thought, enough time left for short words though.

Nowness of Being

No longer looking back,

to examine the life behind,
To reflect upon futility,
Of clock watching,
Of time writing.
No future need to buy any diary,
To peruse unwritten,
imagined pages,
No plans now to draw letters,
To form an alphabet of ambition,
To cast horoscopes,
No need to aspire,
Merely non expire.

Korsakoff read and reflected upon his words, then shut his eyes, he would be

quite happy to die in his sleep, that these might be his final scribbled sentiments, if

only to be read and possibly remembered by Simone, but of course he would not be

'quite happy' for he knew he would of course not know if he had died, that there

would be nothing, and he knew that, regretfully, as always, tomorrow he would

awake.

They sat finishing their breakfast, a mixture of coffee, orange juice, cereals

and rolls.

'Is it far to go?' she asked.

'A couple of miles.'

She stood up and began to walk to the door. She was dressed inappropriately,
he thought, unlike the dress she had worn for their reunion, a knee-length cotton

outfit. She now wore a - could he call it a miniskirt? and a tight woollen blouse. Her

breasts were larger than he remembered. His eyes absent-mindedly drifted down-

wards towards her legs.

Simone, in her turn, as she stood waiting for him by the front door, now

gazing at the distant gently swaying trees through the small circular stained glass

window (and, even after all these years, she still didn't know what that calligraphic

symbol meant - was it Chinese? Japanese? She vaguely remembered her mother

saying it'd been a wedding present from a former college flatmate). The storm now

spent, realised he was watching. Without turning she lifted the hem, revealing the

thin line that marked the span of the sun; above chicken white, below reasonably

bronzed. 'Turns you on, daddy dear?'

- why do you write of me like that am not like that

you must say goodbye simone

'Not particularly.' Korsakoff stood up and walked into the hallway, passing her.

'Just wondering if it's ... appropriate.' He opened a wardrobe and withdrew his coat, a

thick, now very old, black Russian trench-coat. He'd bought it at some auction, as it

had belonged, it was claimed, to a famous composer, - his namesake, in fact. He

stood in silence as he put it on, then adjusted his neck-tie in the long mirror, more of a

cravat really, he thought, his attempt at a respectful formality. It was strange that,

when he gazed at his reflection, his appearance seemed to have changed; he was sure

he hadn't worn glasses, in the older, younger days (or even had a beard), yet here now
he was, looking more like that Russian composer, that one from The Five (not The

Three, or The Seven - although they were all prime composers), than .. himself. He

turned towards Simone, and asked, 'What's my name?'

'What?' Simone asked, irritated at this ridiculous question, then, turning away

from the view to see her father's attire, adopted an affected accent, 'Gosh, daddy

dear, you look absolutely super.'

Korsakov ignored her and walked through the doorway under the stairs that

led to the garage. Yes, he had been glad to have been Korsakoff the writer, but now

Korsakov the composer suited better. It was as if he suitably filled his clothes. His

job description. He'd read somewhere (he was sure) that Nikolai Rimsky had

“suffered” from synesthesia, but hadn't, even then, really understood why that

should be a disability - he remembered Simone's piano teacher saying, “That's so

green .. the way you played that D Major.” after she had played the simple but

famous Clark piece, Trumpet Voluntary. Hadn't they had it played it at their own

wedding? Hadn't Russell even played it for them?

Simone was following him into the garage. 'Still got the old banger then?'

she asked, resting her palm upon the boot of the old Aston Martin DB4.

'I wouldn't change it for the world.'

'I remember how you used to take me for rides in it.'

'I bet you do.'

'When I was young, I meant.'

He looked at her, then smiled sadly. For a moment she had dropped the
barrier, and he had not realised. 'Yes,' he began, attempting to appease, 'I remember

too. I used to take you everywhere. We were very close, in some ways.' But Korsakov

knew he had missed his chance, and received merely the rejoinder, as Simone quickly

enough re-erected her antagonistic shield,

'In too many ways.'

No seven cow hides and a layer of bronze for her, he thought, sourly. He

unlocked the door in a heavy silence. Guiltily he held it open for her. He pushed up

the garage door, revealing the picture of fields and trees in the distance. Almost a

Constable, if it wasn't for the obstructing driveway. It seemed that the storm of the

previous night had actually blown over trees, towards the general direction of the

graveyard, but that was surely impossible. Korsakov stood looking out at the stillness

- the live cinema screen at the end of the darkened chamber. A nice sentence; he

might use it. Then, 'We are all in the warring trench looking upwards at slim slits of

sunlight.'

'What?' asked Simone, not quite startled now, as it was obviously her father's

day for cryptic comments. She looked at him blankly. She didn't remember him

having this trait of spouting meaningless piffle before. “What's my name?” “Warring

trenches.”? What the fuck?!

Korsakov unlocked his side and stiffly clambered in. 'The trouble with reality,'

he murmured, 'is that it doesn't have a plot.'

God, he was not going to stop, was he. But now, finally, to Simone's relief,

they drove off in silence.

 Korsakov watched his daughter looking down upon her dead mother's face.

Her emotions remained inscrutable. No display of grief - but then he hadn't expected

any. But he stood surprised at her .. curiosity? Fascinated she slowly reached out her

hand to touch the cold face. She gently pressed the flesh.

'I've never seen anyone .. dead before.'

He could have sworn there had been a hesitation.

'Least of all my mother.'

Korsakov smiled drily. She seemed compelled to push the lacerations in, as

if to see if they would give and reveal the dried blood within.

'They've done a good job.' she said. 'She looks almost normal.'

Korsakov looked down to his wife's face. “She looks almost normal.” Almost.

He looked up again at his daughter. He hadn't expected such a lack of emotion, such

an expression devoid of any semblance of sorrow, of lost opportunities. It unsettled

him - it didn't matter that he could easily explain her indifference; the result of years

of callous treatment by her parents, that each day and evening had been a battle

fought out in their front room, their daughter merely a pawn in their strategic plotting,

the one against the other - he could understand it, reason rationally, but his daughter's

cool laconic tongue still made him uneasy. What kind of woman had they bred, the

two contesting, although in earlier times consenting (until Coralie had discovered

the truth about the Nadine affair) adults? A creature more than the sum of the two

parts? A vicious, deliberating houri? God, pity her lovers! His wife, ah yes, his wife;

she certainly looked more beautiful in death he thought; the facial muscles had
relaxed, the furrows knotted into her forehead over the decades of marriage had

faded into thin lines, and finally, and by no stretch of his imagination, there lay a

ghost of a smile upon her lips. A contentment: in peace she rests. He grimaced sourly,

a grotesque inversion of words springing instantly, but not unreluctantly (as if he'd

had a choice), to his mind; “And in pieces she will rot.” 'I hope that smile won't

haunt me.' he said.

Ingenuously she replied, 'I thought her mouth was twisted.'

They turned to smile at each other, a realisation of their verbal absurdities.

'What would Pinter make of it?' he asked,

'Or Beckett?' Simone retorted quickly enough, 'What would Chomiac

make of it?'

'Chomiac would ..' but Korsakov quickly fell to silence; for he could not

admit it out aloud, not even under the disguise of a 'created' fictional character (he

had met the 'real' Chomiac in England when he was young, when he had first visited

London to have his dog bitten wrist fixed in Charing Cross hospital, - and where he

had met Nadine, - and soon enough on wandering down to the Polish Centre in

Hammersmith to book a coach trip home, he had heard a young girl singing in the

basement bar, who was quite, although he did not of course know that word at the

time, “ethereal”, - almost a replica of the canvas picture of a “Pre-Rafflelike” ((for

those were the English words he'd scribbled down, copying from the written upon

gallery wall)) he had seen early that very same day in a gallery called The Take (?),

to then that night meet that image's brother, and consequently Katherine, to offer her
gigs back home, an offer politely but firmly refused, although she agreed that if he

sent her this book of poems he had claimed to have written she would endeavour

((and he had had to look up that word too)) to translate them into English, and

although he now remembered it was Chomiac who had introduced that band to him,

the one with that strangely named singer, “Sczent”, he was never, after his Chopin

recital in - and where was it? appropriately enough Warsaw? - to meet Chomiac

again, once the secret of his betrayal was out), - no, not even a fictional “Chomiac”

would admit to his being glad that Coralie was dead. It seemed futile to pretend

otherwise, but in death she had still not released her grip, as if in rigor mortis she

still gripped the unburied secrets. In death she maintained her hold over him through

their daughter. He looked at Simone. He could now see more than the facial

similarities between mother and daughter, now that they had been in each other's

company for the best part of a day - and without the presence of a live, turbulent

wife to distract him from his, he thought, objective appraisal of the prodigal

offspring. She could almost be a replica, he concluded, now aware of an

uncomfortable trace of maliciousness within himself. Korsakoff shrugged his

shoulders, to shake off the chill of a shudder, the skeleton in the cupboard. But

Simone had noticed his cursory examination of her. 'Who are you staring at?'

He had it in his power not to censure her he knew, not to retaliate, but

Korsakov could not resist - this weakness was his only defence. 'Your face. You look

just like your mother.'

'Oh, yes?' she answered doubtfully, immediately suspecting him. 'And what
helped you make the connection?'

'Her relaxed muscles. They make her seem twenty years younger. Almost

twenty years younger - one mustn't strain credibility. Quite near your age, my dear.'

'God forbid. I could never imagine mother being .. young.' She then caustically

added, after a moments pause, 'How many eons did you say you were married?'

Korsakov didn't answer. Had it really been just short of a quarter, or, incredibly,

a third of a century? In retrospect it seemed an unfathomable length of time. What

had they done together? in all those years? But Korsakov remembered that their first

days had at least been deliriously happy, if 'deliriously' that was an adequate

expression. From, for his romanticised memory. No, - a contented inebriation - that

was it, a more appropriate description. He recalled an early incident, from those far

off, distant times of their household pucelage, before the pernicious rape of their

marriage by his wife, upon the discovery of Nadine's letter concerning their dead

child. She had once bought him flowers, one evening as he had sat in a gallery, the

location of which now long forgotten, but not The Tate, probably the Budapest

National. He was autographing books, already the celebratory in exile, even if only

in Hungary, when she had appeared holding a large bunch of - but of what had she

grasped in her right hand? Her smile he remembered, the glint of enamel not sharp

then, the gentle pucker of her lips - but of the flowers? Brilliantly coloured, yes, but

a single tone, or a myriad of shades? - he could not remember. Said she had bought

them from a mad looking painter, - must have been a painter, what with those white

streaks (of paint?) everywhere - who spoke good English, though he seemed to
incessantly hum vaguely familiar tunes, who'd said he was on holiday to visit a

Polish school friend. “In Hungary?” she had asked, curious, smiling vaguely, for

this was her first trip abroad too, for the mad painter's reply, “Only next door.”

Perhaps Coralie had been happy because her investment had paid off, in marrying

him, bringing him to London, to enjoy that certain celebratory lifestyle. Which he

had found at the time faintly amusing as she claimed never to have read his great

work. He had written a poem about the incident, a simple concise recollection. It

would be around the house, somewhere. Korsakov made a mental note to look for it.

That evening? It would be proof that they had at least once been happy, for if it is

written it must be true. Yes, “My Lover Brought Me Flowers” must lie about

somewhere.

- you never bought me flowers

no, i m sorry simone and you must say goodbye soon

- and you must say goodbye too place flowers upon my grave want

azuiebloomingchalkyruddyxanthicverdantpeppermintstalks

The ghost of a smile upon his dead wife's face had prompted memories,

unwanted but perhaps necessary. Only after the child was born had the bitterness

began to be formed, almost as if, he had earlier thought, lugubriously, the growing

embryo was the cancer that began to eat away at its parents marriage. At birth, the

cancer embodied, the love atrophied. Yes, he had also written that too,somewhere,

but Korsakov no longer held those words to be true. To blame the child? An odious

irresponsibility. His wife had said she felt trapped, as doubtless she was - as to an
extent all mothers are. But she had felt resentful of this, as if nature had been cruel

in selecting her, and her alone, to be female. “You enjoy the fruits of your external

body,” Korsakov had said, attempting a reason of sorts (in the days when reason had

been attempted for), “your beauty, the compliments of strangers, so why should you

not enjoy the fruits of your internal body? A child?” That she continued to hold the

birth of their daughter against him, in spite of his assurances - because he worked at

home - that he would share the burden of bringing up the child; it was almost as if

she believed the entire experience of “femaleness” was to be his fault. And so

Simone grew up amongst arguments, fights, rejections, sly attempts at cajoling

the other into an admittance of guilt, pointless disagreements that were to be instantly

cloaked by an illusion of a contented domesticity as soon as the doorbell rang, or

friends or colleagues - or especially if his agent or publisher, Brian - in the very rare

event t/he/y (for his wife Penelope was a pain, she somehow mistrustful of their

teenage daughter) now came to dinner. Korsakov held no doubts about where his

daughter had leant her tactics for vicious inveiglement. Her voice fortunately broke

abruptly through his doubtful reminiscence, for he knew, deep down, that the truth

of his thoughts were false.

'Well I've had enough at looking at the old lady. I've done my dues, let's go.'

Korsakov found her dismissal of her mother brutal and coarse, but to be

expected. The daughter could of course never know that there had once been an

initial warmth between her parents - Korsakov expected that she would give a hollow

laugh if he so much as suggested it, or an angry snort should he imply that her birth
had been the seed of their decay. He gave a cursory nod to the mortician (? - he

looked more like th/a/t mad Post - Expressionist, - or was it “Impressionist”? painter,

- yes, he could spell those words now, though never to know, to recognise the

difference) as he followed Simone out into the street. A gentle drizzle fell. The

decaying dampness after death.

'Where is she going to be buried?' Simone asked.

'In the churchyard. Do you want to see the plot?'

'Sure, why not?'

They crossed the road and followed the path down the gentle slope that led

to the churchyard. Korsakov nodded to the occasional familiar face that passed them.

His presence in the village had been a mixed blessing to the locals. His fame - some

called it notoriety - was beneficial in that it marked out an otherwise insignificant

enclave, and brought in occasional revenue when a reporter or - god willing! - a

television crew descended upon the local hotel, to be crammed into the then too few

rooms available. Sometimes, the hotel owner was known to (too frequently) complain

to the locals, business was so bad that the only guest was a nurse “Come up from

London, regular as clockwork, but just one day a year. Nice nurse, name of Nadine.”

But the converse side of their appreciation for their tourist attraction was one of

mistrust, Korsakov was not one of them, he rarely came into the village, he never

drank in the local pub. No one in the village even knew his first name, and so a

mocking deference came to be placed upon his title; 'Mister Comrade Coarsakov'

a villager, the hotel owner again in fact, had joked, having only vague intimations
of Korsakov's true Eastern European origin, 'I haven't read your dirty book.' (Which

somehow Korsakov could not believe, since the speaker somehow knew of the

English girl's name.) There was the local bookshop, merely a window and door built

into the front of a terraced house, and Korsakov, upon his arrival in the village many

years before, had visited the shop and obliged the owner with his autograph upon the

two paperbacks of his he had in stock, one of the 'dirty' book, and the other of his

much later collected essays. At the time Korsakov wondered whether any of the

locals would buy his works; a year later, his curiosity aroused, he paid another visit

to the shop, to find the same two volumes untouched upon the shelf. He had smiled,

and secretly admired the villagers for their lack of respect, despite (or possibly,

probably because of) his public verbal denigration of Western Culture on a television

interview. He felt reassured by their lack of deference, or of any interest in him - it

was in marked contrast to his reception at meetings in the city. Human nature,

Korsakov had soon enough decided, upon his arrival in the West, was the same all

over the world; poverty implied a necessary indifference to outsiders; only in wealth

could a veneration of another person begin. It had been the same in Poland, and then

later in Hungary; feted by officials - but then they were Party members, and to them

butter and meat were easily accessible. And they had their hold over him, knowing

of the nurse affair. The rest were too busy queuing, before and after '68. He pushed

open the small iron gate and walked across the sodden grass to the grave. The

ground had already been dug; a starling stabbed the earth, retrieving with its beak

a convoluting worm.
 'Where's your plot?' she asked.

'Yes, I'm looking for a new storyline.'

'Ha ha. I mean in life … as it were.'

Korsakov smiled thinly. 'I'm not yet dead.'

'Uh.' she muttered, as if doubtful. Then, treading cautiously, 'Is that really six

feet down?

Korsakov watched her leaning over the edge. 'Careful. There might be another

coffin underneath. They stack them you know.'

'Who's seven feet under then?'

He shrugged. Her indifferent curiosity it seemed knew no bounds.

Simone turned away from the long wound in the ground. 'When I die,' she said

smiling wryly at him, 'I want to be placed upon wood, branches and the like, and

burnt. Just like Shelley.'

And like Shelley your heart will remain unburnt, he thought cynically. But

there was another parallel, as his daughter had already realised. No wonder she was

smiling. Bitch! For who could name three of Shelley's poems? Ode to the West Wind.

Of course. Yes? Yes? what else? Fuck all. But who hasn't heard of Frankenstein? His

wife had made her own grasp at immortality. With her Promethean subtitle. And the

parallel with his daughter? Christ, she didn't even have to write her stories - he did it

for her! Korsakov watched her walking away from the grave, to examine the names

engraved upon other tombstones. He would not care now, of any discovery. She

paused at newly laid flowers,

- yes want azurebloomingchalkyruddyxanthicverdantpeppermintstalks

yes i m sorry i never bought you flowers simone but you must say

goodbye soon

to point at a stone, to murmur, 'There's a Simon here.

With a nice picture of him.' She peered closer, scraped the moss away. 'Died young.

At eleven? That's too early. “Taken by the .. wa .. water”, does it say? Doesn't seem

enough letters. Is that .. enamel?'

- caramel enamel

And Korsakov nodded, sadly, knowing, wondering if he should, at some stage

explain the absurdity of his moving to this place, to be near the gravestone of a dead

child - no, she was too young to understand such things, but Simone, quickly bored,

and hearing the church bells, looked upwards, curious at the sounds.

'They sound creamy yellow.' she said, before turning towards the gate, to

stand, now realising he had not followed her, to wait for him. The drizzle had

stopped, and Korsakov, turning away from the grave of his never met dead son,

was staring up at the clouds, the sky revealing a glimpse of sun behind, and she

was sure he was counting them, the seven clouds, the unfurling cumulus veils. Shy,

sly lady of the sky.

Simone was calling to him, 'Can I have an ice cream?' for she had quickly

recognised that the bells were not of the church, but of a passing van. She had

walked away quickly, disappearing behind a hedge. An ice cream? Had he heard

her right? He followed her out of the graveyard, and Simone stood at the small
window, the propped list of prices prominently displaying the wares within. How

like a child she seemed to him at that moment, scratching her thigh ingenuously as

she made her choice, unaware that another person might be watching,

'Um, I think I'll have an oyster please.' The girl serving took two semi -

circular wafers and filled them with a xanthic shaded cream, Korsakov had walked

off to cross the road. The serving girl looked so like the cabbie yesterday. 'Aren't you

having one?' she called out, to his distantly mouthed reply,

'No, thank you.'

Simone fished through her pockets for small change, then handed two coins

to the assistant, 'Thanks .. Carol?' nodding for her to keep the change. She received a

smiling thank you, and then strange words, 'You must say goodbye.'

- no will never leave you no

simone you must say goodbye no flowers upon your grave unless you

say goodbye

But Simone

remained silent, not answering, puzzled, sure she had misheard, as there were distant

church bells faintly echoing somewhere in the distance, but as she walked away to

join her father she turned to look back at the girl serving in the van. Yes, yesterday

she could have sworn Carol had been driving that taxi. But that was impossible,

to be serving her ice cream the very next day. Perhaps she hadn't been paying that

much attention, what with the distraction of the disturbing thoughts building (?

building? Surely, forming?) in her brian (Jesus, brain - she was living with a Brian!),
of meeting her father again. The distant tinkling was fading. 'It's funny, I thought I

heard bells somewhere.'

Korsakov turned to answer, shaking his head, 'No, the church bell hasn't rang

for some time. Years in fact.' Had they ever even rung for Simon? In those days?

Dead and buried even before he knew of his existence. Then, he asked, tentatively,

'How do you feel about it?'

Simone looked puzzled. 'About .. what?'

'About your mother's death?'

'Oh that. Why that doleful voice, daddy dear? You don't fool me I can tell you

right now. You expect me to feel sorry? For what? Regret at lost opportunities? at

not making amends with my mother? Forget it, I'm glad she's dead, and so are you, -

why deny it? At least there might be, more of a chance of a ... an agreeable

relationship between the two of us.'

' “Relationship”? Not the word, I think. I doubt it.'

'Why not?'

'As I told you? - as I was watching you I saw the resemblance, and I don't

mean just of your features, between the two of you.'

'You think we're both vicious, conniving women? Oopps!' An amorphous bulb

of ice cream fell unto her knee. She stopped walking to lick with an index finger the

yellow stain. Her skin looked pale beneath the cream.

'Is that banana flavoured?' Korsakov asked.

'Yes.' she replied. 'I expect you want a lick of mine now, don't you? Simone
offered the wafers to his mouth, but Korsakov declined again, shaking his head,

implying, “No. Thank you.” 'But as I was saying,' she continued, with alarming

alacrity reverting to their original topic, 'How can you expect me to be anything

else? when all the time the two of you were arguing and beating the living daylights

out of each other? What's never ceased to amaze me is how you managed to do any

work - that you had any energy left at all.'

Korsakov smiled at this, she was perceptive. 'It surprises me too.' before

adding, drily, 'But you helped me there of course, according to your allegations.

But marriage, as you will eventually find, does take up so much of one's time.'

'Not that sort of time.' she dismissed. 'But anyway, how can I be anybody else?

To be not like I am? That doesn't even make sense. To be more relaxed? - this is the

way I am. Perhaps I should take therapy.'

Korsakov snorted; she knew what he thought of therapy.

'But perhaps you could benefit, daddy? Release all your pent up sexual drive?'

In public too, he held no defence. They walked on a few yards in silence,

Korsakov waited, tensing himself, realising there was more to come.

'After all, you can't always rely on me being around.'

'Cunt.' he muttered, as he unclenched his fists, now affecting calmness, 'But

only yesterday you were suggesting we were going to live out our days in not - quite -

a - matrimonial bliss.'

'But perhaps you might tire of me, like you did of mother, once I reach a

certain age.'
 'Tire?' A momentary puzzlement. 'Did she tell you that? I don't believe it! I

never tired of her .. like that. She was attractive, beautiful - '

'Especially in death.'

'But,' Korsakov continued, determined now to press home his point. 'She

used to withhold herself. Always in a bad mood - her normal emotional state I

hasten to add. She used to wear a nightgown. A red negligee. A provoking chastity

belt.'

Simone wiped the last traces of ice cream off her fingers. 'How erotic. Red

that is. I never used to bother with nightgowns during my days at university. Not

even during the day, come to that.'

'You enjoy flaunting your body?'

She shrugged her shoulders and attempted yet again to brush her fringe away.

'I suppose so. I've always found it .. puzzling? the power women, by their sexual

charms, can exercise over men. It's strange, and it's as if it's got nothing to do with

us.' She tapped her chest, she spoke for Woman. 'And it's sad some women can't

break out of it, this relation between sex and personality. To them they are what their

bodies are. Even I, even me - and I know you won't believe this - have never, ever

propositioned a man. They come for me, they hunt me. Even when they buy me a

drink, or tell me “What a fantastic night they're going to give me”, in their soft

pretended husky tones, they're hunting me - I don't say, don't have to say, anything.'

She laughed. 'A fantastic night they're going to give me! Who do they think they're

fucking kidding!? Once their puny little vessel is discharged, - and not many of them
can get it up twice! after an hour or so with me - let me assure you of that! Yet they

believe they're god's gift to women. Satisfaction for a man is a temporary stiff key

turned in some convenient slot. The arrogance of some fuckers.'

Korsakov was surprised at her diatribe, her rawness shocked him. But she

had a point, he thought, considering his own history, his own regretted evil. He

recalled a passage he had read somewhere, 'I know Tiresias wrote that women

enjoyed screwing nine times as much as men. He was settling a dispute between

Zeus and Hera.'

'Like hell they do.'

'And Aristotle thought women, and especially young women,' he inflected,

smiled thinly, as Simone looked up sharply, aware of the irony, 'should moderate

their demands. Keep it in mind, hmm .. for your future partner?'

'You're a right fucker in your own way aren't you.' she stated flatly, with a

curious finality.

Korsakov looked away, the graveyard and Simon's tombstone now far behind

them. Perhaps “right fucker” adequately summed up his life. Or the words, “right

fuck up”. They walked along the path back towards the car, a silence having fallen

between them. He opened her door, she lithely clambered in.

A few miles from the village he asked, 'Shall we go for a ride?'

'It seems we already are.'

'No, along the riverside?'

From the corner of his eye he saw her visibly tense.

 'Why there?'

'We could talk about what happened? Or not happened.'

'Talk about it? Are you joking? Talk about it! Jesus, are you sick!'

But Korsakov was insistent, 'It would be a good idea to go. To stop this futile

pretence between us. You know? - how Freud suggested seeking out the cause of

things as a cure. I remember how you used to try to explain his theories to me.'

'Well I've changed my mind about Freud. He made sex into a dogma.'

'Not hereditary then?' he muttered.

'Ha, ha.'

Korsakov turned into the driveway that led to the house. Perhaps the visit to

the river could wait. Until tomorrow? They would have to go sometime, to exorcise

his guilt? or to extirpate the truth? Korsakov drew slowly into the garage, then

switched off the ignition.

Simone got out and walked through a side doorway, a modern addition to

the old building (had he got planning permission? she wondered, or did he still

recklessly despise authority?) that led to the hallway of the house.

Korsakov locked up. When inside he found she was making tea, her first

domestic effort since her return. Perhaps, he thought cynically, but ever hopeful,

she was feeling guilty about the use of her tongue. Perhaps - but he was doubtful.

He stood watching her.

Noticing she asked, 'You don't take sugar, no? It's so long ago I can't remember.

At least I found the milk.'

 He shook his head. 'I still don't know where she hid the bottles. But sugar?

No thanks. Bad for the kidneys. And I'm sweet enough.'

'Um,' she murmured doubtfully. 'only if you swallowed two kilos a day

repeatedly for twenty years.'

'Why take the risk.'

She handed him a mug. Taking it he leant back against the table. Sensing his

hesitation she asked, 'Yes?'

'I do want to talk to you about your mother's death.'

'Oh.' The way he distanced himself from his wife, by the expedient of

addressing her as 'your mother' annoyed her - did he not realise by now, and after

all these years, that she could see through his ploys at once? It was sometimes as if

he (and as all men were to her, it appeared), were transparent. But she accepted he

was right, the topic needed to be broached. 'Yes, I suppose it is time to hear about

your wife's death.'

Korsakov turned away, and Simone followed him into the front room. They

sat opposite each other again, chess pieces tactically placed, as if confrontation was

inevitable, that their game would be played to its inevitable conclusion. Korsakov

sipped his tea, grimaced, she had sugared his tea after all. He saw her grinning

impishly - she found her deliberate act funny, as doubtless any other time in her

childhood he would have thought so too. But he had something of importance to

say - give the dead their respectful due at least! He begun, 'I told you yesterday it

was a car accident ..' but his beginning had metamorphosed abruptly to an end, he
stopped.

'But it wasn't a car was it,' she prompted, 'because the Aston is still intact.'

'Your powers of deduction do you credit,' he said drily, 'but it might have been

another car.'

She dismissed that possibility. 'So what happened then? The local rags say

she fell down a cliff. She was pushed? By you?'

Korsakov smiled stiffly. Not even, “Was she?”. So she had done her research

after all, despite claiming indifference. He answered, 'Murder is one of the few

hobbies I am reluctant to undertake.'

'One of the only, I would have thought,' she murmured, her attempt at cynicism

fading into ambiguity.

Korsakov cupped his mug with both hands. He felt suddenly cold. He was

reluctant to continue, having alluded to the cause of his wife's death but Simone

ridiculing this, but she would discover the truth at the inquest if he did not tell her

now. 'Yes, your mother committed suicide.' he reaffirmed. 'But not falling, jumped.'

He saw at once she had not expected that. Death in an accident, a fated determination

- the unexpected was acceptable, but self destruction?

Simone sat silent, mulling over his confession. Finally, quietly, 'Uh, why?'

Korsakov told himself it was to be expected that she would ask, that she

would express curiosity even of the manner of her mother's death. He looked down

at his tea, a thin skin was forming. Would other daughters ask their fathers the same

question in a similar circumstance? It would of course be broached, but surely more

discreetly; perhaps a, “Uh, why?” would not be used - rather, a more appropriate

response would be a respectfully muted, “That's terrible. How ...?” fading into the

dignified silence. Korsakov, in his now distant days as a writer, knew the power of

the triple dot ellipsis; it hid the silence of the words that did not follow, that he had

nothing left to say.

'Well?' she again prompted. Now her tone was abrasive,demanding an

immediate explanation. All this thinking would give him too much time.

Korsakov gave in, but was aware of his own dramatic effect, in simply

repeating, 'I told you - she jumped off a cliff.'

Simone slotted the cassette into the video recorder. The screen momentarily

flickered before settling into the titles. Some rubbish about politics - she fast

forwarded until the next batch of commercials appeared then, a familiar image

flashing before her, she pressed to play. Even video machines were time machines,

she thought. Her father sat to the right, the interviewer - a notable celebrity now in

his own right (for having interviewed so many other celebrities) - to the left. The

theme music, an Other Band song from the sixties, faded quickly. The interviewer's

preamble introduced Korsakov as “internationally renowned”, a visible symbol of

the “human spirit's struggle for freedom, independence.” The sycophantic excess

went on. How the “now scarred wrist of his fist fought for freedom” striking out

against the imprisoning regimes. Simone smiled; the interviewer was not to know

how Korsakov had changed during the decade since they had last met, or how he

intended to conduct the interview. She knelt by the television set closely watching
her father upon the screen. He sat as if he hadn't heard the eulogies conferred upon

him. Possibly, or probably, she guessed, he hadn't, she herself had learnt in the few

years since she had seen Korsakov of the vast chasm between public respect and

private disdain. That would perhaps explain why he had always seemed so dis-

interested in others. And increasing deafness didn't help, except to give him an

impassive demeanour which could be interpreted any way the viewer wanted, the

blank canvas upon which to draw your own conclusions. But who could ever

discover, now, what he had been thinking throughout those few minutes? He

probably wouldn't have remembered himself. The introduction finished the

interviewer swung his chair towards Korsakov.

'Nikolai Korsakov, we are honoured to have you here with us this evening.

Firstly, since you are known as much for your defection as for your novel, and

other ..' (and had he really inflected here? Simone had wondered, the first time

she had heard the interview, but possibly distracted by the lover she was with then,

who kept wanting to talk about - for god's sake! - rocks, but yes, he had) '.. minor

works, so let's talk about your manner of escaping from - '

Simone pressed the button that flicked the tape again into fast-forward. The

“defection” was an incident in history she already knew too much about, and the

reality (as her mother had explained in earlier times) hardly matched up to the

romantic notions of “escape” held in the public imaginations; they formed crazy

notions of intrigue from watching too many spy films (whereas the life of an

informer, as Korsakoff had so quickly found, was one of begrudged betrayal).

Coloured horizontal noise bars sprang up unto the screen, flickering green and grey,

as if to contain the now frenetic gesticulations of the two men.

Simone depressed the play button, ' - that the virtue of the West have been

overemphasised.' A more appropriate place to re-continue the interview she could

not have chosen: The interviewer looked up sharply at Korsakov's uttered heresy.

'Sorry?' Korsakov answered slowly, delivering his words as if with a - yes, and

Simone had wondered about this too - rehearsed deliberation, 'There is a myth

prevalent that the West is intrinsically better, in a vague economic, or political sense

which has never been clearly defined, than the Eastern bloc countries. This is not so.

I can recollect my first shock when I stepped into Europe, and that was that the rent

for, say, a single room, was ten to twenty times that of my home city.' The inter-

viewer was spurred into an immediate response, 'Yes, but - ' as Korsakov had raised

his hand and continued, now oblivious of interruptions. Simone smiled, remembering

how she had felt curiously proud of her father at that moment; when the interview

had been first transmitted over the air, such was the tension apparent between the

two men her lover had stopped screwing her, well at least stopped grunting “Deep

Time, Deep Time ..” to turn his gaze away from her chest to turn to look at the

television. She had giggled, her boyfriend's action had held an uncertain irony at

the time - surely she was more sexually charismatic than her father when his

ideological mettle was aroused? But apparently not. So her attempts to spite him,

even at a distance (as if he might in return have seen Simone through the one in a

million - though surely not that many were watching - television sets that were on
at that precise moment), had failed. Her smile turned into a grin as she recollected

the incident. The student had been reading (which meant studying, right?) geology

after all, she supposed, when he was not painfully (for him) rehearsing Gerontius at

the Barbican, and had started writing articles for some trashy paper, as with his now

damaged wrist he reluctantly 'wanted' to get into journalism. She had stroked his

Lisztian blond hair, and suggested, no, insisted, “Can you get back on to playing

my G string. I'm hungary.” (And Rolando had smiled, for his surname was Polish -

but these Europeans just didn't get it, and then he grinned, for Simone,

- no not me why do you write bad of me like that

of all

people, should know, what with Korsakov as a surname, the difference between the

two countries) For his response, as his long fingers played an imaginary piece upon

her thighs, “Very droll. I will now gallop grandly and chromatically over your body,

playing my favourite Elgar piece.” At least he had managed to get it up twice,

although she found his later grunts, “Ben there, John Dunne that” mildly distasteful.

She thought he'd gone on to be the college president of the union or rowing club,

or some such 'pseudo' or 'quasi' political post, of no interest to her. Perhaps after all

he'd been that tory she'd boasted about. But she had made the effort to see a rehearsal

of The Dream of Gerontius at the Barbican, admiring his flowing fingerwork,

knowing where they'd been. And Simone had admired her father's balls to take on

an experienced right wing interviewer, and win. Korsakov had parried the questions,

pointing at the similarities between governments rather than their differences: 'All
my life,' he'd continued, palm still held vertically outwards, a shield against his

verbal detractor, as if held at the certain correct angle his hand could absorb sound,

'.. all my life I have watched governments - how could I not have, having fled from

one? - but it with sadness that I note the similarities, rather than the differences, in

their organisations.' Korsakov slowly lowered his palm, the interviewer having

reluctantly granted him his silence. 'You have said that the Eastern bloc countries,

and of course Soviet Russia, demonstrates how socialism, communism is a failed

cause, that it cannot provide for the people, But this is not so; for Russia is not

socialist country ...' The interviewer had progathously pouted, doubtful as to

Korsakov's intentions. He was being handed a rare opportunity to contradict

Korsakov - his statement was ridiculous - but he sat indecisive, choosing to wait,

as if for instructions from his earpiece, as if the producer (probably female,

whispering sweet nothings, Korsakov had thought at the time) was the voice of (a)

god(dess). This was his mistake, for Korsakov proceeded to balance his statement,

' .. All governments tend towards centralisation, it is in the bureaucratic nature of

things. In the Soviet Union power is centralised, contained within the politburo,

in England power is contained within the cabinet.' A silence fell, even over the

disinterested studio audience (for they had expected another guest, some pop star

who had cancelled his appearance “at the last minute” (the warm-up director had

disdainfully explained, himself reluctant to appear in front of an audience), choosing

to remain in India apparently, leaving the rest of t/his band to appear in his place) -

that a democratic government could be considered equable with a totalitarian regime?

the idea was anathema to the English. And Korsakov knew this, 'Even in England,

a bastion of democracy you would not say? - the governments elected to power

make moves to increase central power. None of the parties, whatever their professed

political persuasion have proved, or are proving, adverse to increasing the power of

Whitehall at the expense of local councils.' A sigh of agreement arose from the

audience, a muttered cloud of discontentment; t/his was a moot point, a topic very

much in debate in the media at that time. But Korsakov then made a fatal slip,

Simone judged, as she watched him in the interview for the second time, the weight,

but not the memory, of her then boyfriend's piano playing hands now long gone, in

not realising that he had won his argument, in swinging the audience over in a single

paragraph - but then, almost as if determined to depress the accelerator as opposed to

the brake of his beloved DB4, as if determined to crash, 'People are so manipulable

at times, it seems.' Simone pressed and held down the fast forward button, so that

images flashed before her, soon enough to be blurred, and burned into memory. His

arrogance in assessing the English people hadn't gone done well - he was after all a

'Johnny Foreigner', allowed into the country by the grace of a government who had

listened to his then new wife's love story, a country he now apparently publicly

derided. But, still intrigued, or perhaps there is always to be found a comfort in the

repetition of images, she released her finger. The interviewer had passed on to

his works. Sensing Korsakov's blunder, and, after tapping his earpiece as if needing

warming (warning?) voiced confirmation to continue, he adopted a more offensive

tone. Why had Korsakov remained silent for a decade, after that first initial out-
standing novel, then ten years of …shall we say, minor (no inflection that time she

noticed) literary works, in the form of political essays, and the like? The interviewer

affected a tentative probing - astutely sensing that Korsakov's reticence in answering

hid the authors own concern about his work - was the great writer now sterile? His

last efforts, feeble analects; one story had concerned the sexual exploits of a young

female student at university, written as if she herself was the author, another a

disturbing tale of a daughter claiming her father was sexually exploiting her, merely

to hid her own talentless as a writer, was this ... maturity? Had Korsakov's creative

source in fact dried up ten years before? and had he been living on the not insub-

stantial royalties ever since? Korsakov could not answer these charges, and the inter-

viewer deepened the wound. At first, probing gently, 'Perhaps the comfort, let's say

justifiably brought to you by the success of that earlier work ... removed that

compulsion that compelled you in the first place to express your memories of a

different way of life?' Korsakov had sat silent. The implication was clear, and of

course the comment also referred to the implicit assumption that the West had given

Korsakov barrenness, and, the worse fate for any writer, creative sterility, in exchange

for its benefits of “freedom”, “wealth”, “security”. For was it not true that out of

suffering came Great Art? Security? Korsakov had wondered. Certain creature

comforts equalled sedation. The interviewer prompted Korsakov again, but he could

only answer lamely, 'Naturally I am grateful for political asylum in your country.

I have never suggested otherwise, but to suggest wealth can remove, obliterate a

person's essential creative core - that is nonsense.' 'But is it not a truism to say that
your work has nearly always dealt with events before nineteen ..' - and here the

interviewer looked down, as if to confirm the dates of times gone by, of events

before his own time (and probably even his own birth, Korsakov had wondered -

what can these children know?) and therefore of no significance to them, ' - eighty

nine? Apart from …' 'As did Jean Paul Sartre's great trilogy deal with events before

nineteen forty five that doesn't make him any less a - ' Korsakov was going to add,

“any less a great writer,” but he realised the compliment to the French author would

be deliberately misconstrued as an opinion of himself. (And he did indeed think of

himself as a better writer.) 'So it is reasonable to assume,' the interviewer had

interrupted, determined to press home his point, 'that the public may at some stage

expect another novel by Nikolai Korsakov?' Korsakov shrugged, refusing to commit

himself. 'I do not know.' The interviewer dismissed Korsakov with a final, curt,

'Well thank you mister Korsakov.' (leaving the audience in no doubt he had wanted

address Korsakov as a “comrade”) and turned towards the camera, to refer to the

next famous celebrity of another week. Korsakov was cut from the screen, already

now history, as the camera rostrum swept around, across the (now disappointed)

audience (for their tickets were for this week, and not the next; such is life's lottery),

to display the prominent photograph of the next weeks guest, some pop star, who

had (now) agreed to sing (solo, but not be interviewed), with th/a/t strange name,

and looking, Korsakov noticed with a start, somehow very familiar to him, as if he

might have been that unfortunate singer he had been forced to spy on in that time

before. And then, instructed to remain seated where he was, a musical trio appeared,
with another too familiar face he thought, but then, once seen on television every-

body's face is familiar. Yes: # Every face I see is your face, every smile is yours,

all the words, ever spoken. # Yes, he had heard that on the radio once, almost poetry,

he'd thought, with a nice tune. The guy that wrote it, perhaps had even sung it, was

obviously in love. Korsakov had listened to this band, with their catchy little tune,

sung by the familiar looking one (as the word (?) “Mmmn” had floated into his

thoughts), but it was strange, that the tempo seemed to drag, as if the percussionist

was deliberately withholding the beat, it gave a strange effect, but then, that was

probably modern music for you. Off air, and not being invited to the green room,

a cab was summoned for him, and the girl drove him all the way back to Malvern.

At least they'd paid for that. In idle chit chat she revealed her name to be Carol.

- she is the one

Simone stopped the tape and rewound the cassette a few seconds, sensing

recognition. Yes, that promised pop star did look just liked Russell, but just a bit

older. But the interview hadn't gone well, she thought. But curiously, and perversely,

sales of his books had increased in the week following the screening. As daddy had

said, the proletarians loved scandal, and sexual content, and such a response was

universal, and to be expected. '' Her father was already asleep, having retired to his

room early, claiming a headache. And who could blame him? Earlier that day he

had asked her to accompany him to the riverside. He desperately wanted to make

amends it seemed. It was his way of exorcising the guilt feelings she guessed. Poor

daddy - he could never understand women, they were always somehow unfathomable
to him. He had never forgiven himself for his drunken half remembered actions, but

he could never grasp that he could never understand her motives. She had told him

earlier, but she could see he still looked at her with incomprehension. To be female

was to be desired by males - it was that basic she thought. The abstract notions of

“Men”, and “Women”, “Father”, “Daughter”, didn't enter into the sexual equation.

Neither did the truth of the fact that her father hadn't desired her, in his drunken

state that day. He felt guilty, in his imagined remembrances, she merely accepted

the situation. She knew that she had instigated it. Perhaps she had wanted to kill

the mother to marry the father. But tomorrow she would go to the riverside again

with him. One more, final day, and then she would release him. She had the idea

for a plot for a - the next! - novel, and, more importantly, she knew now she could

make him write. That would keep Brian happy.

They sat looking at the stream, brown and muddy - now no longer clear. But

was that another illusion memory had concocted? Korsakov did not know, as he

sighed sadly. As soon as he had driven into the meadow and stopped, she had leapt

from the car, as if to escape from him. She had flipped off her sandals and began to

wade in the shallow waters. But the water had proved too cold - even for her, he

had thought drily, - and she had rejoined him on the bank. They sat in silence, each

lost in their own thoughts. Korsakov remembered how they had seen a water rat

swimming across the bank, carrying a small twig in its mouth. However the current

had proved too strong and the rat was prevented from ever landing; its energy soon

spent in remaining mid-stream.

 Korsakov had smiled at the absurdity of this, “Is that the human condition?”

he had asked. And Simon had laughed in return, as a child laughs, without

understanding, but seeing, and before her awareness of the cynicism of his adult

bitterness of creative sterility had set in. That was the difference between them,

he thought, she had youth, and with immaturity went the implicit assumption of

optimism, and hope. Of a future. What did he have? Despair? Defeat? That once

his true love had been Nadine, not Coralie? That he had moved to Malvern, merely

to be near his dead son? A boy he had never known? He turned to look at her. That

she was beautiful? - of course. Intelligent? - yes. But ... vivicality, that was it, her

single most essential ingredient.

Simone stood up, aware of his appraisal of her, and began to skip away. 'It's

a lovely day!' she called back, not quite singing. The skip turned into a run,

taking longer strides. He watched her body recede, almost muscular, he thought,

lithe.

The girl Nadine stopped and began to dance, now a curious flailing of her

limbs. She kicked at the tips of the blades of grass. The lover turned away to look

at the spot where they had picnicked decades before. He could pinpoint precisely

where they had sat - that triangular rutted rock he had rested his head against, the

slight declivity on the other side, hiding the hollow from the moralising gaze of

the outside world, hiding their buried coins. The cut notch in that tree. The soiled

ring to tether their dog.

He remembered too well, or not at all - if only amnesia could remove that
memory, his imagined guilt.

It had been a lovely day, then, too. To sit near the rushes, throwing the

occasional pebble into the water, watching the concentric rings merge and pass

through each other with an elegant dexterity any conjurer would have envied, to

hit the discarded cork, to inevitably fail in their attempts to scuttle the cylindrical

vessel - it had been wonderful, an unfilmed commercial to demonstrate the virtues

of family life.

Had it been deliberate? On his part?

And had he not, he reflected sadly, asked himself that question again and

again and again and again and again and again and? Again and ?… forever

to no answer. His endlessly repeated query, and always to be ringed with an

enervating doubt. Surely she had not? not deliberately?

She had pushed him gently back and away. Now a stillness and silence in the

afternoon air. Where had his wife gone? Were they not married? Were they not

meant to stroll along the cliff-tops, in past, present, and future times? Nadine had

drawn herself up slowly and had then knelt, legs apart, knees bent, before him.

She began to trace her finger along her thigh, gently drawing up her floral coloured

dress. Perhaps the invisible line she had traced was only an inch, but it had been

enough. He remembered her dress well - how could he not? The small red hearts,

their minute capillaries interlocking, the xanthic paleness of the love petals, red

through yellow.

'Do you love me sugar daddy?' Nadine had smiled, although the years that
separated them were too few.

For what is the sum of a life? No creases in the dress, in the moment before

he touched her, before they became tangled by time, and memory. As his finger had

touched hers, joining the upward arc of her thigh, the traces of doubt had crossed

her face. Her smile, the enchanting, provocative expression he thought she wore,

faded into an uneasy concern. Only then did she realise she had gone too far, that

the social rules of her experimental game of an imagined sexual flirtation had been

transgressed.

She tensed her hand, to resist his. 'Daddy? We need to be married first.'

Did he love her, Nadine? A moments pause, spun out by his memory into years.

He had had the opportunity to retreat, to withdraw his hand, and then, perhaps, they

would have laughed away the moment, to have become a secret between them, an

intimacy shared, to be held between them in future times, that he had not trans-

gressed. Yes, he had held the opportunity. But had he taken it? The moment passed,

and as she realised his choice, that the date of their marriage held no significance,

for what is the difference between a singleton Friday, and the coupledom of a

Saturday? when all days are the same in time? she began to fight. She punched,

scratched, spat in his face, but he was easily too strong for her. He clasped her

thighs, lifting her off her knees with a single, abrupt thrust. She fell heavily unto her

back. His hand pushed past hers, forcing it away. His forearm fell to her throat,

forcing her neck further into the grass. With his leg between hers he forced her

thighs apart.
 She had stopped struggling, the paralysis of fear. Chomiac looked down at

his trapped animal, listening to the sharp, stilted breaths. Her glazed eyes face

unseeingly across the stream. As the dog barked in the distance. A tear, a single

saliferous stream, stained

'Thinking about it were you?'

Korsakov started, it seemed she had been standing beside him for some time.

'Exorcising the guilt bit, yes?'

Korsakov shook his head, 'No, just rewriting my book. My next book. I have

no guilt - I have nothing to be guilty for.'

'Hm ..' she nodded doubtfully, as she sat down beside him.

'I never took - raped - you. It was only a story - and not even a story about

you. Why pretend?'

'That's not the point. You would have, if mother had not returned.'

Korsakov again shook his head, but this time with an insistent, 'No.'

Simone searched for a pebble by her feet. Finding one she flicked it into the

river. 'I've an idea for a novel.' she murmured.

'Oh yes?' asked Korsakov drily, aware of the incongruous lurch from a

sensitive topic to one, to him, of academic interest only.

'Well there's this writer called Chomiac. In exile from an Eastern bloc country.

Let's give him the beautiful wife - together they are celebrities, social invitations

left, right and centre. And his books are good (of course), though they deal with

political events no longer even recently past, and dubious subjects, of a sexual nature.
A happy marriage, yes? A beautiful daughter is born and curiously, coincidentally,

eventually, another a novel. That one doesn't sell so well, not being so salacious.

From then on Chomiac takes to short stories, essays. It's unmentioned (except by

his wife) that's he's in decline. Forty five and already nothing left to say? The

marriage also begins to flounder. Not so many invitations now, uh? Not so many

visits to the country mansion from the city folk in their latter years of famousness?'

Korsakov smiled, his cynicism had been inherited by his daughter after all.

'End of novel?' he asked.

'Most definitely not: part two, the parents affection has grown to hatred. His

wife takes to wearing a nightgown which doubles as a chastity belt.'

Christ, she knew that? But of course - his words yesterday!

'In a creative, as well as sexual frustration, father attempts to seduce daughter.

Succeeds.'

'Fails. No! - doesn't even try!''

'So you did try then? You've just denied it. Anyway, daughter leaves home,

in disgrace, after all, according to mother, it must be her fault.'

'That was never implied.'

'Except by mother. Daughter goes off to university, screws many men, her

own attempt at extirpating the past, and only returns upon hearing of her mothers

death. From a dramatic suicide enacted only yards from the scene of the earlier

seduction. For reasons as yet unknown.'

'End?'
 'Oh no, suicide note, well, letter, eventually found, in a box amongst a pile

of milk bottles under the bed; that she had discovered her husband's dirty book

was in fact true, and that a flat mate from college days - someone she had actually

known, had been his victim and had borne a child. Who was that by the way?'

'End?' Korsakov again insisted, but still questioning.

'Only if you like. Perhaps they do, after all, end up living in matrimonial

harmony.'

Korsakov shook his head, almost with a mock sadness, 'Apparently your life

has turned out to be more sensational than fiction.'

'Ah, but in your capable hands it can be turned into something ... definite.

Definitive? And after all, you've done fuck all for ten, twenty years?'

'Thank you.' Korsakov acquiesced, perhaps a sullen admittance. 'But you've

forgotten I've already written that story.'

'No, I wrote it. And I've got an agent. Of course I have to sleep with him, but

Brian keeps me in style. Can't afford not to, as it happens. I've decided my book,

“How To Blackmail Your Lovers” is going to do quite well, as it's written “in house”,

as it were. I'll promise to leave out the last chapter when he publishes it.'

Korsakov stood up, obligatory brushing his trousers free of grass. 'Shall we go

- it's cooler now.'

'Oh dear, I've upset his feelings.' But Simone followed him anyway to the car.

Korsakov unlocked the door, held it open for her; as usual she clambered in, almost

as if an adolescent.
 She had something of course, he knew, but the allusions to himself were too

obvious. Never, ever write an autobiography as a novel. It was an aphorism he had

insisted and instructed upon others with. But could he do it? Remove himself from

the emotional intimacy of it all, retreat into the necessary detachment that would be

required? And would that be the theme - the literary phoenix rising from the ashes?

Or that a person, his daughter, could act as a creative catalyst? Unaffected herself by

events but instigating a change in her parent? Korsakov began to drive off. He turned

to look towards his daughter. She was smiling inscrutably to herself. Perhaps she

knew what effect she had upon him - of course she did! - but did he know?

Unfortunately the truth would be more .. and what words would he use here ..? to

reveal how he had moved his family, and unknown to his “new” wife even then, to

be near the grave stone of his never seen but now dead son?

And it was, after all, a good idea. A lot or work, probably two years at the least,

three hundred thousand words? several hundred pages? Christ that would be

something - establish and confirm his reputation again. Simone had planted her

germ of optimism, and sensing this from her father's expression of thoughtfulness,

began to hum. After a few minutes she added words to her tuneless ditty, # I've got

you, bom bom, Under My Skin. #

Korsakov sighed - but she was still so like a child? She repeated the refrain

as they drove further away from the now silent and distant stream, that field of

false sc/d/reams,

# Bom, bom! Tra la la! Under my skin! Deep in the heart of me .. # She held
him, Simone thought, in the palm of her hand - she could squeeze him and suck

the juice from his soul. If he had one in his agnostic belly. Page one tonight - she

would insist. She repeated her humming, searching again for that elusive melody

(perhaps after Russell's piano lessons she should have switched to singing), # I've

got you, bom bom! tra la la! Under My Skin! Deep in the heart of me! I've got you ..

under my skin ... #

- that is not me why do write such nasty words

but how do i know simone that might have been your life had you

lived instead of these words in this story that flows, to fill the remaining days of

my diary quickly enough, but knowing I am soon enough to reach again November

the 15th, the obliterated genius and reservations (but perhaps the original title should

have been written, genius with reservations) but now the Revelations and Genesis

of my life, where those removed days, that lost time, will block my narrative, until

I am to write again, at the end of time yes simone the pen will write of you again

even though my hand is stationary, lying still by my side. Perhaps even my own

eyes lie.

- that is not me

but how do i know

- won t say goodbye

you must simone they tell me it s time, and warm nurse Nadine

is always right.

Upstairs, unlocking her mother's room (she'd finally discovered that what that
other key on the string was for - she was sure it'd never been locked before - perhaps

it was her father's attempt at deification) she cautiously entered the room, as if a

presence still lingered, and warily began to search through a desk. Her mother's

papers must be t/here somewhere. She vaguely remembered when she was very

young her mother yelling at her when she found a letter, separate and obviously not

belonging to her drawings. She had wandered into the kitchen with it, and had cried

as her mother shouted, snatched it away, and to escape her mother's fury had ran off

into another room. Why was she so angry with her?

But as an adult Simone realised that this family had held too many secrets,

always there was a tension there, an almost tangible uneasiness, a knot pulled too

tightly to now be unpicked, and this string of secrets had, over the years of tautness,

distorted her parent's personalities. They were, indeed, - in deeds, and actions, all

warped. Her father, but how to describe him? Too secretive. And he was always too

stern, too strict. Looking always dour. What with those crazy clothes he'd taken to

wearing, as if imitating a long defunct composer. He was not one to lecture,

especially after his behaviour towards her. Even if she had exaggerated a little,

for dramatic effect. And her mother? Well, she had been dead a while, if “dead”

is to be not seeing someone for so long, so it was all just memories. Coralie ( could

she really call her that?) had always seemed slightly .. volatile? Tense? Well, that's

how she remembered her. And that singular moment of fury, as she carried that

found letter into the kitchen. She had been only four, or five. Simone didn't

remember her father being present. Such rage, still remembered decades later.
And it still hurt her. It was all so unfair.

So much crap in these desks now. S/He hadn't cleaned them since probably

before the last time Simone was there. And she'd never called it home. At least that

letter might be still here, amongst the papers and dust. Amongst the detritus and dirt.

But she didn't know what she was looking for. She remembered scribbles on the

cover of the envelope. Then Simone paused, hand frozen upon paper, fingerprints

upon dust, as a distant memory coalesced, almost as if she could see her own

synapses coagulating in her brain, forming this unwelcome clot of memory in her

mind, the scribbles had been tiny hearts, and they had been drawn in red. That was

why, curious, she had picked up the letter as a child. # Mummy, mummy, mummy,

I love you! # she had sung, # Mummy, mummy! Hearts for you! # as she entered

the kitchen, only to have fury vented upon her.

No wonder she was angry now. As if now focused by anger she threw these

other obsolete sheaths of papers she was holding, these now absurd irrelevant

scribbles, of shopping lists, dress receipts, of electricity bills from years past, upon

the floor. Just that one letter was needed, shouldn't be hard to find. But Simone,

despite lifting a sheet to peruse the stacked piles of milk bottles under the bed,

in a curiously hexagonal pattern she thought, almost a glass beehive - so her father

hadn't even bothered to search? - no box there, after all, didn't find it.

Later, as Simone sat with her father, meal eaten and finished in silence, now

both drinking their wine, Korsakov lost in thought as always, it seemed, nowadays,

as he examined his glass, the hall light through the stained glass frame curiously
inverting and (dis)colouring the Chinese symbol, she longed to ask the question,

'Were there any of her mother's papers that he had thrown out?' but there was this

distance now, the bridge that could not be traversed, that infantile intimacy broken

by time. She had done some unpleasant things in her life, well, not unpleasant at

the time, but still, she felt a guilt at being so promiscuous, when younger. But why

should she? It just wasn't how she was brought up though, what with her mother

being so strict, - but a little teenage rebellion wasn't unhealthy? That was how she

saw it anyway. People liked fucking, they just pretended they didn't, hiding it, and

their desires, under the disguises of religion, morality, or whatever. Well we were

all here weren't we? And that's where we all came from; somebody fucking some-

one, somewhere, sometime. And all the time. At least she had been careful, she

didn't know what sort of mother she would make, probably not a very good one,

what with the history of her own family. It had to be asked, even though she still

felt this nervousness, as if an unknown prize was just out of reach, but could only

be obtained by wandering through a devious verbal maze, and not by any other

simple process of directly crossing that questionable bridge. Well, she had grown

up, and playing this curious version of musical chairs just wasn't her game any

more.

'Didn't mother leave any letters, or stuff like that?'

Korsakov shrugged, 'Story not going to plan, then? It never does. Bit like life,

haven't you found?' It seemed he didn't much care now. Perhaps he even wished,

even after all this time, that her mother hadn't written to him all those years ago.
Then a thought, and he muttered, 'Would be in a cigar box, I think. Inlaid with

coloured wood. Not under any milk bottles?' She shook her head as he looked at

her, as if admitting her knowledge of English was now so much better than his, and

that he had known all along where the bottles had been. He seemed to savour the

word, as if tasting a new word to see if its colour could be somehow contained

within the palate of his mental dictionary, 'Marquetry?'

She nodded. 'Where is it?'

He shrugged again. Perhaps it was time to throw out all those old bottles.

And shopping lists. Hardly collectable were they. 'No box under the bed, - some-

where else then.'

'But surely in her room?'

'Probably. There should be a key to .. the box. Somewhere.'

Simone could see he would make no effort to find it. She left the table in

silence, wine glass in hand, and returned to her mother's room. Yes, she had searched

ground (and no, she wasn't going to clear out those milk bottles from under the bed -

that was his job) and eye level, so now she looked up. There were unfolded bed

sheets stuffed on top of an old wardrobe, crumpled as were the cumulus clouds

they'd seen earlier. No sun to shine to break through here though. More mess.

Perhaps ... but she would have to climb. She took the chair, swept away with her

arm more rubbish unto the floor, and stepped up to climb upon it. Stretching, still

almost out of reach, definitely out of eyesight, but yes, there was something small

but firm wrapped within a sheet. Evidently no one had been up there for years.
Couldn't they afford a cleaner? Just a small wrapped box on a wardrobe, dusty,

untouched for years. Who would look for it? She thought it looked like a discarded

jewellery case. Too small for papers, but hardly hidden in any way. Far out of reach

of a toddler though. She reached up, climbed down with the bundle, coughing,

scraped away the dust, now almost solid grime. It had been - was - beautiful.

Perhaps her mother had had taste after all. There was a lock but the lid opened

easily enough. The key lay within,

- the index within the index

what

and a pin cushion, and three letters, one

sealed and “Final letter” scrawled, almost scraped illegibly, the others merely

pages folded in half. Nothing else. Not that secret then. Simone placed the pin

cushion upon the table then unfolded one of the letters. Yes, it was the letter she

remembered, but so much smaller now. Well of course, she was an adult. And the

red of the hearts had faded in her memory, more brown now, decayed by time. How

Passion fades then. But the name, and the address made no sense, they weren't to

her mother's, but to someone called Nadine, with an unreadable surname, just a

scrawl really, - just like her father's unintelligible writing! and an address of a

college in Tottenham. It seemed familiar but she couldn't place it. Who was Darling

Nadine? Her mother's name had been Coralie. It was very difficult to read, but she

could make out that it was a letter asking a Nadine to go to Poland. Simone stopped

reading. She held the seven pages to this letter but she had realised, almost as if the
whole text had been magically, instantly transmuted from symbols, a written

language into a comprehension, an understanding in her mind, and without even

needing to check his signature at the end, which would, as usual, be unintelligible,

that this had been a love letter from her father to a Nadine. She fingered the date,

as if clearing away again the disfocusing dust of the past, attempting to gain an

immediate presence, it was decades ago. But why had her mother kept this? How

had she got it? She was about to open the second envelope when heard her father's

footsteps behind her. She quickly folded the letter and turned.

Korsakov was looking down at the mess, papers strewn randomly around

the room. He appeared angry, but suppressed his rage. Instead, always the heavy

sarcasm, 'And this is how you desecrate the memory of your mother?'

But she appeared genuinely apologetic. 'Yes, I am sorry. I will clean it up.'

This did not appease Korsakov, but he had noticed the pin cushion and his

expression suddenly changed. 'Where did you get that?'

'It was in the box you mentioned.'

He stepped forward, reaching down hesitantly to pick up the pin cushion. It

was strange, she thought, his hand actually seemed to slow as it neared the table.

Yes, he had stopped. And then he stepped back.

Simone gently picked up the fragile object and held it towards her father.

'Nothing to be scared of.' she offered, as if appeasing.

Korsakov held out his open palm and Simone placed the sewn fabric upon it.

Perhaps he had thought it was a spider. Well, there were a lot of strange webs in this
house. He held and stared at it for what seemed a long time, then gently closed his

fist leaving a hollow as if to hold a precious egg. Korsakov said nothing as he

backed away and slowly left the room, almost as walking, retreating backwards and

in shock. Well that was strange, she thought. She wished she had examined it more

closely now. But of course she still held the letters. And he hadn't seen her holding

them, transfixed as he was. She looked at the mess around the room. It did look bad,

but the cleaning could wait. There was no secret now. Only incomprehension. So

her father had once fancied a girl called Nadine. So what? Nothing new there, in

the story of the human race, but her father had acted disturbingly strangely. She

stepped into the hallway, to make her way down to the kitchen, but stopped on the

staircase. She could see her father sitting silently, yet another drink in hand, staring

at this pin cushion as if carefully placed in its precise position upon on an operating

table, this fragile heart still beating. His shoulder seemed to shudder, an almost

reticent, ashamed, hesitant shaking. Christ, he was crying. Her father was crying.

What the fuck was going on? Simone stepped silently back up the stairs, returned

to her own room, needing some privacy now, to ponder, to examine this other letter.

It looked a lot fresher and cleaner than the 'love' letter her father had sent to 'Nadine',

and as Simone checked the postmark she realised it was recent. Too recent to be

history, if seven years was 'history'. These letters had better be worth it, she thought.

Simone sat on her mother's bed, opened and unfolded this second letter, this one

addressed to her father. To this house. There lay a small photo within, of a young

boy it seemed, although the hair was long and quite fine - a bit like hers she thought,
and, as if to test her imagination, she fingered strands of her own hair, - yes, could

be definitely a relative, and the boy appeared about ten. He looked sweet. There

was only the slow realisation that this was the enamelled picture upon the gravestone.

What had been that name? Simone read this second letter in full. And then again.

Finally standing she forced the papers unfolded back into the box.

There was no secret now, only incomprehension.

Korsakov sat silent, now spent. The truth was far worse than he could tell her.

For it would be to admit his evil, to verbally announce and accept in utterances the

wrongs that he had committed in his life. Not the imagined, alleged sexual assault

upon Simone - although he had often wondered why she had made such a specious

accusation (perhaps it was because of her own talentlessness as a writer, not that he

had ever read anything of hers, - somehow “How To Blackmail Your Lovers” didn't

appeal) - but of the evil towards his wife. But then, Coralie had committed an earlier

evil, and was that his fault? That she had taken, no, stolen, his letter to that English

girl. Had she read it? - but of course she must have done. He fingered the scar upon

his wrist, a unwanted remnant of the training of his dog.

The voice spoke. 'How did you get that? Wanking?'

But Korsakov again didn't answer his daughter. She was still young, and spoilt.

She had not lived his life, but he was not sure if he was glad that she had not. He

had often wondered if it was better to live long in the shallow grave of consumerism

that die short in the deep pit of political ideology. He had lived both lives, and this

one was better, if only because of the mere fact he was still alive. And therefore
granted a life to write of experience. Of existence. Perhaps the next century

would be different, and better, and even if the squabbles were petty; better to argue

about nothing, any irrelevant, temporary fashion, than to kill absolutely about some-

thing, fascism, communism: jaw jaw, not war war. So many millions slaughtered

over nothing. Civilisations in convulsion. Had it all been inevitable? A necessary

stage, as Marx had argued? To an imagined somewhere better? A religious utopia?

To the promised paradise? Or as Kant had argued, in his conviction of beneficial

Enlightenment, not from evil to good, but from worse to better. No: all those roads

had led to dead ends. Or to living, hiding in darkness, in the shadows at the dark

end of the street. And it all seemed so irrelevant now, somehow, like old movies

playing to empty cinemas. And he knew he had lied too, as even the scar upon his

wrist held a different, true story to the one written. He had of course been too young

to fight in the war, a fact easily verified if anybody had bothered to check his

proclaimed, concocted history, even if only by a few years, but even cataclysmic

historical events become blurred into vague memories after too short a time. And

well, that minor inconsistency had become another fiction, how the “Fist of

Freedom Fought ...” - and perhaps that scar had helped in getting him published,

and to eventual escape. Korsakov looked at his daughter - her mother had led me

to escape. And he couldn't tell Simone, too young to even begin to understand. But

her mother had stolen Nadine's letter and written to him. Such are lives eternally

changed from momentary simple actions. She was still sitting there, as if waiting

eternally for an answer. Never knowing the value of silence. The letters lay upon
the table, unfolded, with the pin cushion, precious now, in its fragility. Objects lying,

with their own history, of relevance only to him. No, she could not understand. He

had no idea how the pin cushion had come to be in the house. Hadn't it been

abandoned by Coralie in Poznan? Much later, after Nadine had ... and the word, he

knew, however guilty it was to utter, even in these different, distant times, even in

this different language, was; “escaped”. But it was a word he could never speak

aloud, as if to vocally utter “escaped” would be an admission of “guilty”. The girl

had left her passport, and money. And the pin cushion she had given him before the ..

had been a gesture of affection. He thought she would return, as there was no

possibility anyone could leave the country without the correct papers, but as the

days passed she hadn't returned (what you could do in those days, when you were

a citizen of the West), and only days later (or was it even the next week?) the

police arrived, not for his arrest but with their demands. Korsakov had given this

pin cushion as a gift to Coralie when she had emigrated to live in Poland, long

before the days they moved to Budapest, but not mentioning its origins. She had

looked strangely at him then, too. So his dead wife must have carried this pin

cushion along with Nadine's first letter (and although knowing Korsakov was

never to ask how Coralie had come by it) back with them when they moved to the

West all those years ago. Even the dead hold secrets.

The voice spoke again. 'Who is Nadine?'

Yes, who was Nadine? She had been a specific girl, at a certain time, and

he would have married her, despite his ... yes, he had been too aggressive, but a
husband has certain rights, surely? Well they did then. But he could spend his whole

life now in a futile attempt to try and find her, and he knew she would not forgive

him. And there wasn't much point now, what with his son being long dead. She had

written to him, years later, via his publisher, this letter, who had passed it on to his

agent Brian, who had discreetly but reluctantly forwarded it directly to Korsakov

(but not even directly; he had mistakenly given it to Coralie, forgetting the letter

was already opened), wary now of being shot as the messenger, and the letter had

enclosed a photograph of a young beautiful boy, telling him he was - had been - the

father, but that he was now dead. He had tried to find his father, having seen

Korsakov (Simon's mother in shock pointing at the screen) in some television

interview, by walking to London (“But why there?” the idiotic coroner had asked,

“Because there is a television studio in Shepherd's Bush?” to the nutating, nodding

agreement of others, that this might as well be a likely truth as any other) but had

tragically drowned in the Thames at Kew Bridge, despite the attempts of a local

policeman and journalist to save him. (No one seemed to think it curious that the

coroner hadn't asked of the coincidence of the two adults present.) No return address,

no personal details given, except where his son was buried. Eventually a church to

become now local. He hadn't expected this delivered agony, years too late. Perhaps

it was her revenge. It was obviously his son; same eyes, forehead, cheekbones,

only the boy's hair, fair, fine and straight, was different. But there were no photo-

graphs of himself as a child. Such a luxury as a camera lay in future times. Perhaps

as a child his hair had also been fair and straight. Excepting he couldn't imagine,
or remember himself, as a child. And after he had hidden the letter (he should have

burnt it then ((and the photograph, as he had had - unbeknown to his 'new' wife

of course - an enamelled picture of his son produced, and affixed to the grave, once

they had moved there - such a pointless gesture, as if hoping Nadine might see it,

and forgive him, for those earlier ghastly times)) instead of hiding that absurd token

trophy of a past, before the later time when his 'next' wife had re?discovered it, -

perhaps she hadn't initially read it, after all, - but such was his determination to

retain some small remembrance of a lost past), he took his wife to the bedroom and

held her down, and penetrated her repeatedly, as if it was not his then wife's,

Coralie's face he saw, but the younger Nadine's, even though their bodies, their

faces, their temperaments, and, of course by then, their ages were (now) so different.

She got pregnant quickly enough, but Coralie had not forgiven his force. It was after

all “rape”, she had said, and not the curiously inappropriate word he had used, (still

that ridiculously thick accent) “penistration”, as if the two words might have been

confused in translation. Perhaps she thought he had wanted a child, for, despite her

brutal origin, Simone had been a beautiful girl. And lovely in temperament. But

now, here, the result sat before him, the sperm of the, his d .. evil it seemed. His

wife had dreamt, as all mother's do, of some idealised, fantasy of motherhood, of

an adoring child, of obedience, of unrealised ambitions being fulfilled by the next

generation. But Korsakov had never known what Coralie's ambitions might have

been; he knew that she had been married before, that her husband had died early

from some secret illness, an event forcing her to put her son into care, leading
eventually to adoption (? by a piano playing spinster?) it seemed, such was her

depression at that time. Evidently she had wanted a(nother?) husband, he having

discovered much later that she had stolen someone else's - his! - love letter to

Nadine. And it was apparent from the tone of the later letter that Coralie was to

write to Korsakov that she and Nadine had not discussed the events in Poland. It

seemed she was not even aware of them. But Korsakov, ever suspicious now, as the

police had instructed him to reluctantly inform upon the movements of his singer

friends from England (as if they might pose some unknown, unstated threat in

playing a pop song in the happy golden green key of D major), had still suspected

a trap, and arranged to meet Coralie in a neutral place, even if she claimed she

was merely on holiday, on some cultural exchange student program. And astonish-

ingly she was there, sitting at a café. She was too young to be the police, but too

old to have been Nadine's contemporary - perhaps she was what the English called

a “mature student”. She had stood smiling, holding her hand out in anticipation,

having recognised him from the photo he had earlier sent Nadine. Korsakov smiled

at the remembrance - it had been in fact the first photo taken of him, and he had

been already an adult. And as they talked, Korsakov carefully trying to ascertain

what Nadine might have said, it became clear soon enough that Coralie knew

nothing, but she was only to later explain, after her decision to move permanently

to Poland (and it was almost as if, he thought, Coralie was, in her turn, keeping

secrets from him), that they had been flatmates at a shared college house but Nadine

had suddenly married after returning from a holiday abroad and left the house,
leaving an irritated Coralie, as the oldest, more responsible - well, legally responsible

- tenant to organise another student lodger at short notice. She couldn't remember

the next student tenant's name, excepting it might have been a Carolz or a Mari(h?)a.

- she is the one

Coralie had added that after Nadine's sudden marriage, they had rarely crossed

paths, or possibly never even talked to each other again, except across a distance

in a lecture room somewhere, the occasional polite and necessary murmurings of

acknowledgement, not quite passing ships in the night but more curt wavings from

student bikes. And soon enough a marriage child had been delivered. Korsakov

looked at Simone, unlike the photograph of his dead son there was no familial

resemblance really, her mother's breasts had been fulsome (which was possibly

where all the missing bottles of milk had disappeared to), Simone's small, pert, -

(“concise” might be a better description, he had thought, attempting a better mastery

of t/his 'new' language of his, as he watched his daughter grow in earlier days) and

her mother's face had also been rounder, Simone's strong cheekbones, accentuated

of course by her make-up, gave her a more angular look. But, apparently, and of this

there was no doubt, Korsakov being aware of similar personality traits, that Simone

was her mother's, and his, daughter. We dream, imagine how our children will evolve

into adults. But it is never as hoped. Soon, all too soon, almost immediately it seems,

they develop their own unique personality, and we can but hope that they will coexist

with us in some sort of imagined harmony. Korsakov could not know or imagine

other lives, except in his written fictions, as he now lived alone, as if, although his
only wife recently dead, he had always lived alone with the company of the fictions

of his mind. Daughter his polar opposite it seemed, gregarious to the point of

promiscuity (he simply could not believe all of her proclaimed sexual exploits

to be true), but it seemed all other families also lived in this constant state of

antagonistic bickering. Well of course the TV soap series weren't true, he knew,

but their realities must have been based on some ... template the audiences could

identify with. Plato would have understood; shadows falling upon the cave walls,

not the actual realities, and Aristotle of course, with his rules of drama, but

Korsakov knew there were no hidden 'ideal forms'. Korsakov hadn't watched TV

for some while before his wife died (she had sought a sort of salvation in these

visions of banality, he had thought, whereas for him lay just the boredom of

repetitious story lines), and although that event was so recent he suspected not

that much had changed. The colour of the world doesn't change from day to day.

And neither do the templates of plot lines. Sex and death might still be enough.

Perhaps when Simone was gone again he would begin to watch a few episodes

of something, perhaps even different programmes, then mix the/ir story lines up

to eventually produce some farcical novel where everybody was related to every-

body else in ever more vastly improbable ways; through love of course, but also

through objects; silver spoons and red hearted pin cushions, love songs and love

letters. And Simone had strangely insisted he start writing again, actually drawing

plot lines, as if novels were graphs, with X's across, and Y's up - she had even

drawn crazy, infantile pictures of people she had, or claimed to have had, met
- well, he had heard of that alleged pop star she mentioned, although her description

of him could very well have been of that, her earlier piano teacher, Russell Stuart,

but Brian was real enough though, he was his agent - well, had been, when he was

famous. And before he'd forwarded to him that fateful letter (via Coralie, though he

was still sure Brian had opened it). The trouble was, her sketch of Brian was vaguely

realistic. He found it disconcerting that she knew him; he didn't remember ever

taking Simone, when she was little, to a meeting or anything. He didn't recall even

his wife ever meeting Brian, except that once, at a dinner party, Korsakov discreetly

being pressed for “Anything in the pipeline? I'd like to represent you again. If

you've .. ” as Brian also entertained that fat obese chain smoking astronomer, with

the infeasibly attractive daughter (Coralie had insisted on their long return drive

back to Malvern that the girl had been Smith's wife - but that was too ridiculous

for words - although she too had looked vaguely familiar, and he vaguely remem-

bered asking, “Someone's painted your picture, right?” to her bemusement). And

his wife's attitude towards him changed the very next day, although sometimes now

it was hard to tell the difference. Perhaps Simone would reveal that “Brian” secret

soon enough, when she felt like it. But he didn't feel like writing again, that much

was true. Getting tired, and old. The fire in the belly sated. All that fat of Western

civilisation. But he might make an effort to please her. The Korsakov name might

still count for something.

Simone, watching Korsakov in his distant silence had given up waiting for

an answer as to who was Nadine, had taken the letter in one hand, and with the
other cupping the fragile tiny hearts into the single palm, she cradled the pin

cushion and left. Korsakov had wanted to protest, “No, leave it.”, but Simone had

strangely interrupted, insisting 'No, I must return this to Brain, to the safety of his

closet. He says he keeps his index of things in there.'

Korsakov realised Simone had obviously meant “Brian”, although why

Brian should at all be interested in an old pin cushion he had no idea, and an

“index of things” in a closet? Perhaps she could become a good writer after all,

obviously being one for false memories as well. And in truth it was now just tatty

fabric, thin threads of golden memory of relevance only to him. A pin cushion,

archaic, obsolete, useless. It was all stitched by machinery these days. No quality,

always temporary, made to fade. He (re)remembered his wife's shock at being given

this pin cushion as a small token of his affection when she arrived once again to

finally stay in Poland. It was almost as if she had seen it before. Now that he thought

about it he realised then that she probably had - it had been a gift from Nadine to

him when she had first arrived in Poznan, a romantic gift, and, as he was only then

to discover, when his wife had explained that Nadine had shared a flat with her,

together with one (or was it two?) other student(s?), somewhere in the East of

London. It was strange - he noticed the suspicion with which she had began to

hold of him, even then, just because of this one tiny object. And Korsakov had

now his own suspicions too - how exactly had Coralie come to know of his address?

But anyway, hadn't it had been part of the/ir agreement, the/ir marriage, giving him

easier access to living in London? but as he had suddenly become a famous writer,
surely he could also have claimed some sort of political, cultural exile? There was

no possibility Coralie knew then of his son - even he hadn't known.

Later that evening, Simone having attempted to prepare a light supper (for

cooking was not really her thing, she thought, - as did the many others), they sat

in the garden, under failing sunlight. It was all such a long time ago, and it seemed

irrelevant to Korsakov to discuss it now, but Simone was insistent, as if there were

solutions to her puzzlement of the past.

'So you had another kid, from a fling a long time ago and mother tops herself?

I don't buy it. It wasn't a girl, was it? I know what you're like.'

There was no point now, in hesitation. 'No, a boy.'

'That boy then, the cute one in the photograph. Were you ever married before?

I know what a secretive sod you are at times.'

'No.' Korsakov looked down, folded his arms.

Simone knew this was a defensive movement (much like Brian's finger

flickering), and that she would get very little from him now. But she still seemed

obliged - compelled - to try, such was her determination, now, and in this life.

She insisted, 'Well, what was his name then?' But such was his reluctance that yes,

he actually seemed to grunt. Sarcastically, she continued, 'What, so he had no name?!'

She was like a dog with a bone, he thought, constantly worrying the soil,

digging up the crap and the shit and the dead of the past. A real bitch. But he could

dish it out too, if pushed too far. As he had been. As she was now. Finally, defiantly,

deliberately, 'His .. name .. was .. Simon.' This, as expected, stopped her. But he
had already regretted his outburst, as if he had revealed too much.

Simone stood up and stepped back, asking, incredulously, 'I was named

after my brother? How fucking insane is that?! And he's dead too, right? And

then the name came to her: Simon. What had the words said on the tombstone?

The one with he cara - enameled picture? “Taken by the water?” And mother had

not realised this shit had moved the entire family to be near his dead son. Fucking

insane. Her mother probably hadn't even known of Simon's existence, but had

somehow found out! Realisation - the letter Nadine had written had been discovered

and read by her mother. He hadn't even bothered to hide it! 'That's him buried in the

graveyard! His name was Simon?'

Korsakov nodded slowly. Yes, his boy was dead. And had been for many

years. He tried to recall the face of Nadine, the young English nurse who had

come out to Poznan to see him, but it was all so long ago. Perhaps they could even

pass each other in the street, or in that, their local graveyard, and not even recognise

each other, such were the effects of age. Of time passing. Of thirty, forty years. But

he still kept his eyes open. Yes, he had even moved his family to the Malvern hills

to be near the church. Perhaps Nadine might visit the enamelled photograph one

day. Or perhaps she had (and still did), and they had passed each other, smiling

politely, now two strangers bemusedly exchanging glances, passing through the

pen and umbral shadows of the church tower in daylight. Korsakov looked at Simone.

She was still waiting, insistent in her silence. 'Well?'

'How?'
 'Yes of course fucking how!'

There was a long pause, and then, as if in the final defeat of resignation,

'He drowned in London .. as a young boy.'

Her father looked genuinely saddened, she thought. So he was not lying.

And it had obviously been a struggle to tell her, that much she could tell. 'And

mother found out?'

Korsakov nodded, 'Yes.'

Then, as if further confirmation was required Simone asked, 'Because it

wasn't hers, was it?'

He shook his head, 'No.'

There was a lot more to it than that she knew, but she realised she would

get nothing more from him. There would be another time. 'OK. That's sad.' she

said, agreeing with finality.

Korsakov looked at his daughter, nodded. She was so young, knowing every-

thing but nothing.

She had walked to the garden fence and stared into the distant darkness, the

sun having failed now, faltered in its promise of delivering a new daily hope, and

Simone looked across, as if she could see the graveyard in a nearby field, then

scowled again - how the hell could she have had a half brother for so long and

not have known about it? And to call her after him? Weird or what? They might

have been friends.

'Shall we have another drink?' Korsakov offered, to her back.

 And she turned away from the blank black view, agreeing, 'Yes, all right.'

It was not like her to agree so readily, he thought, or not to pursue an argument.

Perhaps she was planning something .. but she remained silent as they walked back

inside.

- yes we might have been friends

well you were the same age when you died but nadine s tragedy was

for a later time and is only fiction simone as I imagined her life after she had left

me to marry her good Doctor Robert. Perhaps her life ha/d/s been truly carefree,

and pleasurable, unlike mine. But 'Simon' is just a name, shared by millions

you couldn t have met them all only those in the life you ve lived within me i know

that now i want to thank you for guiding me in my life but penel carol marhia is

unhappy with you i think and the drugs they feed me make you fail fade we must

say goodbye i wanted to simone i wanted to play with cathy and kiss her again

but i failed

- yes we play together miss you too join us

but those days are gone simone and you can never go back

And not even I can get back to the early days of the band. Although my mind

seems clearer now: Penelope will recognise soon enough that in Under My Skin I

had used the name Korsakoff (not 'til much later a mention of my beloved Nikolai

Rimski),

- nadine is not the one

an actual writer that it seemed Brian had found a publisher for some time
ago (and not a mental disability from which the voices have informed me I do not

suffer from). Yes, of this Penelope will be definite, and she will check, and reread

that earlier story, a grim sort of thriller about the kidnap and rape of a young English

nurse, set against the political turmoils of that time. And there would be a familiarity

somewhere in her mind, that she had known these people from somewhere - but

how would Saint know about them? she will ask herself, not knowing that Korsakoff

had organised our early tour of Poland. And Brian will seem surprised when she

mentions Korsakoff's name. Knowing now, and all too intimately it seemed, his

daughter. God knows what he thought she was going on about, half the time, she

would think. Things hadn't been quite the same since she had asked if he was going

to kill her. By the throw of a coin.

A sound, the burr of rubber upon the floor as the door opens. The vanilla ice

cream has melted and the hot dog remain uneaten, I now no longer wearing the

mantle of guilt, that starvation of the All is all my fault. I have fed the five thousand.

Even if only in songs.

'You'll go hungry!' Nadine exclaims. 'And I told the cook that's what you

wanted!'

'You have a cook here?' I ask, doubtfully.

'Only the best for you.' she smiles, perhaps aware that I am awakening, that

as the pencil rises that other world fades, that written story of my life, for all stories

are fabrications, and this one resurfaces, the reality of my imprisonment. 'Where are

we today?' she asks, as she checks the instruments, and ticks the chart.
 'Vanilla ice cream.'

'Vanilla ice cream? You want more? This is melted, I think.'

'No, Manila I dream.' I reply, correcting myself.

'Manila?' She answers, but only absently hearing. 'Don't think I've ever been

there.' As if there actually is a doubt. Perhaps I'll write her there. In this collection

of pages. Is she within Revelations? Does she offer Salvation? She collects my

plate of wasted food. 'Where did you get this hot dog from? Didn't think they

served that junk food here.' She smiles, wagging her forefinger, 'I'm going to have

a word with that wife of yours.' She removes her thermometer, to place, now, these

days, in my ear. 'Bit warm in there. I'll get you checked.'

Vanilla, Manila. Cold, to hot.

I remember Manila