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It is July. The days are long and hot. Gazpazha Svetlana Nikitechna has just announced that she, Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch and some friends will take their yacht for a cruise in the Baltic. Alana, Vitally and Dmitry will stay behind in Moscow but I am to go with Gaspadeen and Gaspazha, a sort of ‘Girl Friday’, on the boat. There will be guests, so I am to wear clothes and have a new, more modest collar. My clothes are white capris, a yellow T shirt and flat sandals. The collar will look like an example of hip modern jewellery to others. It’s just a plain metal band around my neck but I know different and in case I have any false expectations, Yuri, the boat’s technical officer reminds me that the boat has an electronic boundary just like the dacha and the collar will keep me in bounds, as usual.
Every once in a while, Neena carefully inspects my skin, to search out any heroic rear-guard action from my hair, any small area of resistance which must be vanquished and burnt to ash. I knew there were a few brave follicles, beginning to push up tiny spiky hairs in my groin and at the sides of my head. They are of course, discovered and condemned. I felt rather sorry for them! So brave and yet so futile. I had tried to keep them secret, but before I am ready to be sent off with the holiday party, Neena arranges another session for me with the dermatological laser so I can bid what must surely be a final farewell to my body hair.
A small convoy leaves the Dacha, together with the ever-present security detail and travels to a marina north of Moscow where we board the boat. There is not much luggage. I have spent the previous days packing and most things have been sent on ahead. When I was getting my Owners’ things ready, I thought they had such attractive things. Smart clothes, casual clothes, all so beautifully made and presented. What must one do, to deserve a life like this? What should I have done, to be on the other side of this impregnable wall which separates Owners from Servants, or in my case, slaves? It’s merely fortune, I think. They are just like me, really. No more intelligent, or attractive but the river of life flowed differently for them or perhaps the currents chanced to carry them to a more favourable part of the stream. However, at least I can enjoy some of this good fortune and life could have been infinitely worse for me. Perhaps I have spent too long thinking about what I do not have and not (as I should) spent enough time being grateful for what life has given me. After all, how many of the children I went to school with can now spend a month on a millionaire’s yacht, cruising under the warm, bright northern skies?
Moscow stands on the Moskva River from which it takes its name. From the Russian capital it flows east to the Okan, on to the Volga and further down to the Caspian Sea. But our route lays to the north, along the Êàíàìë èììåíè Ìîñêâûì, (1) (Kanal Emyeni Maskvi) the Moscow Volga Canal. It takes us towards the Baltic; to the upper reaches of the Volga and on through a system of waterways which travel to St Petersburg and afterwards, the sea. It was built by Stalin’s gulag prisoners. Before them the serfs farmed for the dvoryanstvo (2). It seems we Russians have always known about slavery
The Kustensky’s yacht, is like all their other possessions quite simply first class. Built to their specification, it lacks no amenity that the seriously indulgent traveller could wish for. It was also built in Moscow, something Anatoly Sergeyevitch is particularly proud of. I have heard him say so. (3)
There are public areas, promenade areas, and the state rooms. They all exude luxury. Even the crew cabins are for the most part more comfortable and spacious than would be found on many other vessels. Some accommodation is more modest and secure - that’s where my quarters are but I am happy with that. I cannot imagine living in any other way now. It is what I deserve, what is appropriate for a slave like me. The need for security when all one could do is dive into a cold river and swim to a hostile shore is open to question though. With the certainty of execution by my lethal collar, the security provided by the accommodation is probably more than is really needed. But as Alana said, that’s not the point. They don’t imprison slaves merely because slaves need to be imprisoned; they do it because that is what they enjoy doing to their slaves.
I hear the crew talking about places as we follow the river and then the canal. Uglich, where Ivan the Terrible’s young son was killed – some of the crew compare Anatoly jokingly to Ivan and hope for better things for Dmitry; Yaroslavl, the oldest city on the Volga River untouched by World War II; the White Lake and on to the Volga–Baltic Waterway. There’s Goritsy and the Kirilov Belozersky Monastery, founded to commemorate hermitage of St. Cyril.
Sometimes, I long for the solitude of a hermitage. There’s hardly a moment when I’m alone, or so it seems. Even though the boat is large and comfortable we are never far away from each other and yet, even for slaves, a boat has advantages. I have less to do than if I was at the Dacha or in Moscow with Gaspazha Alana. Of course, ‘less to do’ does not mean that I am idle, with breakfast to serve and clear away, rooms to clean, linen to wash; lunch to prepare and serve, lunch to clear away, drinks to pour, coffee to serve … and sun tan oil to rub on guests.
I look at their pale, oiled bodies and for once, feel smug! I am brown naturally nowadays; Pavea used to taunt me about being negro black. I would have to agree with her now and although ‘black’ is over stating things, deep brown is exactly right, so the oils and lotions are one affectation that I have no need of. Whilst the guests are working hard on their tans, to get as brown as may be fashionable but to avoid burning in the sun – I am serene, for once confident that I am at last one step ahead of my Owners and without any additional effort, I get much browner than they. I wonder if they are envious of this little part of the path I have trodden? It’s strange – once it was slaves who were weather beaten and brown like me, while the aristocracy made sure they had the pallid complexions which proved they had no need to labour. Then the workers were pale and the wealthy tanned as a mark of their leisure. Now we have the bronzed owners and the burnished slave. Who knows which is which?
We cross Lake Onega and on to Lake Lagoda. It’s enormous, like a sea; Europe’s largest according to one of the sailing crew.
We float on, drifting along on smooth currents beneath blue unclouded skies, until we reach St Petersburg. Here is another breath-taking panorama of churches, palaces and majestic classical buildings on each side as we cruise down the Neva and we reach our mooring at a very smart Marina. Well, how could it be otherwise? (4)
I am confined to the boat – Sveta takes pleasure from seeing to my confinement with an enthusiasm that far outweighs the necessity for security - whilst owners and guests take shore leave to visit the Mariinsky Ballet, to dine at restaurants and to see friends. (5)
We stay three days. It is three days when there is just not much for me to do, so at last I have a holiday of my own, after the first day when Svetlana Nikitechna has completed experiments on me with various arrangements of straps and ropes.
When the boat is occupied, I am occasionally confined by the pricks and shocks from my collar to stay below decks, out of the way. But, when there is just me and the professional crew on board, I have the run of the ship (almost – the pricks and shocks start of I get close to the ship’s rail). I can even enjoy lying on deck to read and enjoy the sunshine. My Russian is now good enough for me to enjoy some of the simpler books. And of course there are magazines. It’s a treat to read again, even if it is only the Russian edition of "Hello!"
We leave St Petersburg – just Gaspadeen, Gaspazha, me and the sailing crew - and head out into the Baltic. Baltic! It’s a synonym for everything cold and unpleasant but for us the weather is kind, almost Mediterranean. The day passes in a leisurely way as we sail west south west, between Finland on our starboard side and Estonia to port and then I realize: I have left Russia!
It’s a strange feeling, mainly an insecure feeling. Suddenly, I am anxious. I catch myself looking forward to returning to the security of familiar things, places and routines. But of one thing I am certain, I can rely on my Owners to keep me safe and for me, secure confinement can always be relied upon! As I think about it, I find I am grateful.
I could ask where exactly we are going to but I don’t. After all, I am a slave and why should a slave be privy to their Owner’s business? I would rather not know. It is easier for me to merely get on with my tasks and when there is no work to do, I enjoy the cruise along with the rest of the company.
I am on deck, collecting up some of the empty glasses from where Gaspadeen and Gaspazha have shared a bottle of wine. There’s a mobile phone on the table; it chirrups as I pick up the last of the glasses.
It’s a text message. I know she will want to know. She has only brought her personal phone and there are only a selected few people who have this number. I pick up the phone. The message is from Yevgeny on Moscow. She will definitely want to know. It must be important. I’m sure that he wouldn’t bother her if it wasn’t.
I knock on the door of her state room. I hear her cursing in Russian before she calls me in. She’s lying in bed with Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch. He’s still asleep
She rises from the bed to check the phone, pulls on a robe and pads out of the state room and onto the deck. She returns his text with a call.
"Yevgeny?"
I can’t help over hearing the conversation. Sveta is standing right outside the state room door I couldn’t leave without pushing past her ….
"That’s right, Stockholm?"
There’s a short pause before Sveta speaks again. "Yes, I know. Well they may be potential buyers for the asset I suppose."
Yevgeny replies.
"I see," responds Sveta. "They will be resident for several days, perhaps two weeks? All of them?"
There’s another pause while Yevgeny talks. Then Sveta cuts in again.
"Ah …. So there is a significant possibility of a chance meeting …."
As always these conversations go on as if I were no more important than a piece of furniture. The way she talks about "the asset", it could be anything. It could even be me.
Night has fallen. I say "night" but in fact it’s barely dark. The sun has dipped towards the horizon but at this high latitude, at this time of the year, night is just a dim form of day. I am in my cell – actually that’s not fair, because it’s really just a small cabin in comparison to the state rooms of the principle guests and the Kustensky’s – force of habit, nowadays I suppose.
The door opens and Gaspazha Sveta stands outside.
"Vyerochka: I cannot sleep," she says. "Go fetch a bottle of champagne with two glasses and bring them to me on deck. Oh and open it if you will ….."
I find Sveta on the stern deck- I am surprised to find her naked. Not that I expected her to be prudish, but I am still surprised to find she is at ease when any of the crew might happen by and would see her. The weather is not cold and the breeze merely cool. I offer her a glass and await her instructions concerning her drinking companion – presumably her husband, Anatoly Sergeyevitch.
To my further surprise she pours a second glass and offers it to me. She says, "Here you are Vyerochka. Enjoy!"
I don’t need to be asked twice. I do not get the chance of alcohol very often. Once, it brought me a severe whipping, then there was the day I successfully defended my Thesis, then after my Graduation and finally, after the birth of Alana’s baby. This will be the fifth glass in - how long? Two years? I take the glass and sip. The wine fizzes and seethes in my mouth. It has a sweet musty yeasty taste. And beyond that is the tingle of unfamiliar alcohol on the brain.
"What do you think of our Russian champagne?"
The question could sound strange to western ears, but it’s no longer strange to me. I am a Russian now; it’s champagne from my country. It is our Russian champagne.
"It’s delicious, Gaspazha. Thank you. It is also quite unexpected."
"Well, all good slaves deserve their rewards." She nods her head to my labia, still neatly closed by the rings that Neena installed.
"Can you?" she raises her eyebrows and nods her head towards my imprisoned vulva asking if I can give myself any sexual stimulation.
"I don’t know, Gaspazha. You have not given me permission to … enjoy myself. I suppose I would feel more than I can in (Should I say my? No settle for the, after all ownership rests with the Kustensky’s) the chastity belt but it’s a nice change."
"Yes, I’m sure. Perhaps a holiday privilege?"
I have finished my glass – too quickly. The alcohol doesn’t help. That and my constant state of horniness. I set the glass down. She sets hers down beside it and walks over to me. She embraces me. It’s not a sexual embrace, more like sisters or a mother with her daughter. The affection is almost overwhelming.
"Vyerochka?"
"Da, Gaspazha?"
"Will you indulge me? Tolya is fast asleep and I am hot for him."
I’m not sure I like where this is leading, but training comes to the fore and after all what choice do I have? "Of course, Gaspazha. How can I help?"
"Here," Sveta says, passing some black leather cuffs to me. "Place these around your wrists and ankles."
I strap the cuffs on me, as bidden.
"Now, stretch your ankles between those rings, and your wrists between those ….."
Sveta kneels down to fix my ankles and tiptoes to fix my wrists with snap shackles. I stand, stretched and spread and vulnerable. I remember another night, a world away when I was Jenny, when I had been promised my freedom by a girl called Connie …..
Sveta has disappeared and I am left alone on the deck, under the summer moon, to gaze out on the silver ripples across the Baltic.
Sveta nuzzles my ear: she has returned. "Now, little one. Now I am going to warm your skin. To scratch and tingle and burn you just a little."
Sveta - I glance at her over my shoulder – picks up a flogger and swings it towards me. The impact is merely soft. I feel a wind from the tails as they approach and then a soft thud – and somewhere in the background, just the hint of a scratch and a very small burn.
She plays the tails over my body for several minutes. Slowly. With patience. Unhurried. Thoroughly. Leaving no area of accessible skin below my neck un-visited. She pauses and refills her glass. She drinks and presses the glass to my lips. I refresh myself. I am drinking on a empty stomach and the effect of the alcohol - from our country - makes me giggle!
Sveta picks up another flogger.
"Horsehair! she whispers. Do you know horsehair? It’s scratchy. Itchy. Now, Vyera," she presses her finger to my lips. "Just concentrate on itching in silence!"
"Da, Gaspazh ..zh..zha," I gasp as the thin tendrils make their extended tour of my body. My calves, outer and inner thighs, my vaginal lips, my butt and back and shoulders and arms. Scratching, tickling, tingling, burning, biting.
She stops. I glow. She kneels in front of me - and licks my labia!
OOOOH! It feels so wonderful. The sensation and because of who is playing with me! Her tongue explores. It circles around the chastity rings, pushes between the labia. Explores my clit. Wriggling, Pushing. AAAHHH. I moan louder and pull on my bindings. She stops – and chuckles. I pant.
Yes, she says, I thought you would be able to feel quite a lot more, but you see, rabinya, it feels all the more enjoyable after your strict diet! I think you might now understand why we had to protect our asset?
"Da, Gaspazha! And thank you!"
"Pazh’alsta! I will have you carefully locked up again when we get home. Won’t that be nice?"
I am still hovering near orgasm and all I can say is "Yes, thank you so much Gaspazha!", although exactly what I am or will be grateful for, is open to question.
We drink another glass of champagne each. Her freely. Me, being allowed to sip from the flute she holds for me. She leaves for a moment and I am alone, with the see breeze playing across my naked body, the moon glinting on the rippling waters of the sea. Sveta returns.
"I had to pee. Do you want to?" She moves her hand slowly, firmly up from my mons towards my navel. Inevitably, the hand presses on my filling bladder. "Do you?"
"Da, Gaspazha." I try to speak in all humility but the giggling from before, the sensations of the flogging and now the pressure on my belly all seem to conspire against a proper demeanour for a slave.
"Hmmm. I bet you do." It’s clear that Sveta understands how I feel. She doesn’t take exception to how I speak. "You will be filling. Stretching." As she says the word I choke back a giggle, the word ‘stretching’ seems absurdly funny somehow. "But, you are going to have to hold it whilst I flog you. I will be very cross if you let go. I might even birch you them. I birch Tolya. Did you know that?"
That surprise, even shocks me. How can that be? "Nyet Gaspahza."
"Hmmm. I birched him after the last time he fucked Professor Dawney. Does that surprise you?"
She is still rubbing my bladder. Holding on is getting more difficult or was but her news about Angela, Angela of all people drives all other considerations out of my mind. The question is which is more strange - Angela fucking with Anatoly? Angela fucking a man? Angela fucking at all? Anatoly fucking Angela in preference to Sveta?
"Angela, Gaspazha? But she is …"
"Of course, Jenny would have known that." It hurts to hear her talk about Jenny in the past tense. "But apparently not always."
I begin to wonder about what happened to Jenny, "Did Angela send me to you? Send Jenny to you?"
"No," Sveta is candid, not contesting my right to know. "No, but she mentioned Jenny to Tolya. She claimed to have been arrested by the CIA who were interested in Tolya and all because of Jenny. Is that strange?"
"They interrogated me too. They said it was because of Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch."
Sveta nuzzles my neck again. She continues. "Well I’m glad they told us about you because I’m glad we took you and now, I can’t imagine not having you." Sveta is rubbing my clit – actually brushing my labia and manipulating the top of the ring which passes through my clit hood. It has the desired effect. I start to drool, after her previous attentions. She must feel it too because she stops abruptly and turns to pick up a flogger. I can just see it trailing from her hand.
"Can you see Vyerochka?"
"Da, Gaspazha."
"What are the colours?"
"The tails are white, blue and red Gaspazha." White. Red. Blue. The colours of our flag (6)."
"This is heavy oiled hide, rapina. It will thud and sting and burn and perhaps …." Her lips are close to my ear again, "… even cut. I will lick your skin with this flogger everywhere."
A quick movement. She is standing behind me. I can feel the breeze from the storm to come. It breaks over my right shoulder, then my left. A shower of stinging rain and the thump of the mass of the flogger. Burning spreads out from the impact. She wields the flogger again and again. She is true to her word. She moves slowly down from my shoulders to my back. Across my buttocks and down the back of my thighs. Across my calves and then round to whip down past my breasts and nipples. Around my stomach, left to right and right to left. Up between my wide-spread legs: inside my left thigh, inside my right thigh and across my vulva.
In my mind’s eye, I can take up the position of an observer and watch two naked women at play on the deck under the sky. I imagine the graceful throw of Gaspazha’s arm, and the sinuous path of the whip until its tails embrace their victim, that other naked girl. The image is unbelieveably sexy. I would not be anywhere else for anything or anybody. I am, in some strange way, in heaven.
I loose count of the strokes. I’m lost in the repeated sensations, in the way that each blow builds on its predecessor. She stops and I am left to enjoy the tingling, burning afterglow.
"Did you enjoy that Rapina?"
It takes me time to realise that she is speaking; still longer that she is speaking to me. My body is still swaying to the rhythm of the blows that have now ceased. "Da Gaspazha! It was - wonderful!"
"Do you enjoy being rapina?"
"Da Gaspazha. Tonight – now, it is wonderful to be rapina Vyerka. Thank you for taking me!"
"Pazhal’sta," she replies, "Don’t mention it!"
She presses the champagne flute to my lips once more and between us, we finish the bottle.
Sveta releases me. I return to my cabin to sleep for another few hours before my duties begin again. In the morning, I am woken by one of the crew and when I emerge above decks for the first time I find that we have made landfall!
We are winding our way between islands and on many of the buildings I can see there are flags which carry the blue and gold crosses of Sweden. I know where we are. We are entering the Stockholm Archipelago. Stockholm! My mother’s – Jenny’s mother’s - birthplace, the place where she grew to woman hood; where she met Jenny’s father; the place where I was conceived; of holidays from my childhood; the place where I used to visit relations and do holiday jobs. I know it well.
The yacht noses carefully up the channel which will lead us to the harbour and the Old Town – Gamla Stan – the centre of the city.
I see the familiar landmarks: the tower of the city hall, the modern buildings of Hörtorget, the island with the Vassa Museet and the Harbour Bridge. It’s a strange feeling. The cityscape is familiar but the circumstances make me feel as though I am looking at it from behind glass. The yacht berths. Customs and Immigration officials board. Passports are inspected. Documents are checked. One of the officials is a woman of my own age. She has long blonde Scandinavian hair, neatly tied back and her handsome happy face enhanced by her radiant blue eyes and the healthy tan of her skin. She glances at me. I smile. She looks at my passport, my Russian passport.
For a moment a voice inside me seems to be prompting me to tell the girl who I really am. Jennifer McEwan, a British citizen who was kidnapped from London and enslaved by the Kustenskies and I want asylum and protection until my husband can come for me. But who am I now? I have a new name, a genuine Russian Passport with my photograph inside. I appear on the records of the Russian Interior Ministry and I arrived on a luxury yacht with my employers. How could I deny that? It’s all true. What would it sound like? Completely implausible, that’s what. So I, Vyera Anatol’yevna Kuznetsova keep silent and smile and the Officials continue with the formalities for me and the rest of the crew. Eventually, all is complete. Hands are shaken. Welcome to Stockholm! And then it’s back to work …….
We stay in Stockholm several days. The Kustenskies are on and off the yacht regularly. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes in the evening. There is no shore leave for me here – especially here – and my collar firmly reminds me to remain on the yacht on occasions when I approach the rails. My first impression is strengthened. I am in the heart of a city that I know intimately but I might as well be watching it on television. I can no more enter Stockholm than I could step through a television screen and arrive on the set of a TV drama.
My thoughts are interrupted by Sveta’s arrival, "Rabinya?"
"Da, Gaspazha Sveta."
"We are leaving Stockholm this evening. Dinner will be served as we depart. Please begin the preparations …."
I scurry away to begin but soon there are difficulties. As I walk up from the kitchen to the dining room, my collar begins to shock me. At first it’s merely a small pricking, almost a tickle. I put down the things I have brought and return to the kitchen. The shocking stops but as I try to take some plates to the dining room the shocks return, but this time it becomes stronger and stronger. I daren’t go as far as the dining room. Then I can’t leave the crew deck at all and the more I move the worse the shocks become. My world shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. Finally I have to appeal to the yacht’s technical officer.
"Yuri?"
"Da?"
"There is something wrong with my collar."
"Oh?"
"It keeps shocking me."
"You probably deserve it!"
"Yes, I probably do but I cannot leave the lower decks anymore and Gaspazha is expecting me help prepare dinner and then I will have to serve."
"Perhaps you have been restricted?" Yuri sees from my reaction that I have no idea why this might be. "Perhaps you have been sold and they are keeping you safe and sound for your new owner?" He is laughing but his words send a chill through me. It could be true. What if it is true? It can’t be true! It was only a few nights ago that Gaspazha said how glad she was that I was hers. Why would they dispose of me? What have I done? Where might I be sent? Who is going to take me?
I cannot leave the lower decks anymore so I cannot ask Gaspazha, She will think that I have disobeyed her order. I cannot appeal to her and she will think I should be sold anyway.
I fall on my knees and start to weep, right in front of Yuri.
"All right, all right," he tuts, without much sympathy. "I’ll check. Just stop that blubbering …… Now come here."
He takes the collar in his hand and leads me towards the stairs up to the upper deck - and the collar bites us both, hard.
"Blya!" he gasps pulling his hand away. I squeal and rush back down the stairs as fast as I can.
"Just you stay there, Vyerka. I’ll check," he calls to me, still shaking his hand as if somehow that would ease the shock.
Presently he returns. "Go to your cabin and wait!"
So it’s true? They are getting rid of me? I slink away. Well, I am just a slave and slaves are property and property gets sold. It’s been nice here. Now I will have to do my best somewhere else. But inside I feel horrible, dirty, discarded. I sit on my bed, my feet pulled up to my chest – and wait.
Yuri appears at the door: "Your collar is well fucked, just like all you little slaves should be!" He gives a throaty laugh at his own joke. "I checked the computer programme and the electronic boundary and that is all OK so it must be the collar. Gaspadeen and Gaspazha have told me you have to have it taken off. I would be careful if I were you, though …."
.
Careful? Why would I need to be careful? What does he think I am going to do? He unlocks the collar, touching it gingerly at first, not anxious to be shocked again. Gratitude wells up inside me. It’s the collar! It’s just the collar! I am not being restricted. I am not being sold! I rush off to resume my duties, full of relief and gratitude!
The meal is ready. I have been sent to clean myself up and get changed – a dress and flat sandals. I have even been given some perfume. Perfume!
I do my very best to look my very best. Actually, without hair, that’s much easier!
I begin to serve the meal as the crew casts off from Strandvägen, where the boat has been moored and we begin our journey home. The yacht turns lazily round and carefully moves east and then south to pass Galäparken and the Vasamuseet. The route will then take us between the islands of Skeppsholmen and Kastellholmen on our starboard side and on the eastern, port side, the islands of Djugården and Beckholmen and then onwards, returning into the Baltic
It is 9 pm. The sun is sinking low in the sky, setting over Skeppsholmen but the eastern side of the harbour is starkly illuminated, like the stage set of a film or a play. We have just begun to pass Galäparken. I am bringing drinks on a tray into the dining room when, across the water, I see them.
A chill runs through my whole body as though I have seen a ghost. I can see them sitting on the quay, perhaps only two a hundred metres away a little ahead of the boat. I have worked hard to forget them but now there they are, all three of them, gazing out over the harbour at the end of the day.
I’m feeling numb. It’s so unexpected. I retreat into the world which is now familiar to me. I press on with what I’ve been told to do, enter the dining room, distribute the new glasses and collect the old. Sveta’s eye catches mine. It holds me, interrogating me. I say nothing. As I leave the room, I sense her rise and follow me.
Sveta seems to sense immediately that there is something wrong. She calls me.
"Vyerochka!"
"Da, Gaspazha?"
"Stop! What is it?"
I try to look at her, but my eyes keep being drawn to the three figures, seated quietly on the quay. She looks steadily at me and I look back at her, through tears. I look again over to the quay and back to Sveta.
She stands there, saying nothing as I stand there weeping. It is as though time has slowed down. Sveta seems absorbed in her own thoughts, as though some moment, that she has waited for has finally arrived.
"Vyerochka, do you ever feel the need to give thanks?"
It’s an astonishing question after all she and her husband have put me through but sometimes there are good days and I can be thankful.
"Yes, Gazpazha, sometimes. Yes."
"I’m sorry. It’s foolish of me to ask," she’s confiding in me for some reason I don’t understand. The way she is speaking makes it seem as though there is some strong current running beneath her surface. "Giving thanks can be so difficult. Not just being grateful but giving thanks. I do. It’s true. I really am grateful for all my good fortune; a career, a successful marriage, material prosperity, a measure of celebrity, a lovely daughter and now my small, pink, wiggly, charming, grandson. I’m glad to be able to share him. I know he is Alana’s child but he really feels a bit like mine. Anatoly has given me Alana and Alana has given me Dmitry. But what can I give?"
I’ve never known her to speak like this. It’s as though somehow I have triggered some strange unburdening of feelings that have deep and painful roots. But as for me, I’m still peering out across the water barely aware of what she is saying. She may have her grief but mine is almost unbearable.
She looks towards the quay. She knows what it is that I can see.
"Well?" Sveta says.
I can’t let myself think anything other than we will never meet. "He will have someone new, he will not want me now ….." I speak through a veil of tears, slowly shaking my head.
"And your parents?" Sveta asks. Why is she putting me through this? She must know that I can’t go back. That she and Gaspadeen Anatoly could never let me go back.
I turn to look out again, over the waters of the harbour, at the three people, sitting waiting, now one hundred and fifty metres away.
"He has no one else. He still searches for you. I know, I have watched him."
I cannot understand where this conversation is leading. Why is she telling me this? To taunt me? I know that I have to reply truthfully, the inescapable consequence of my name.
"I have had to work so hard to give them up. It was so painful. All the pain is back here inside me now."
"Here," suddenly Sveta grasps the tray. "Now listen to me, listen to me! Are you a slave?"
"Yes."
"Are slaves obedient?"
"Yes"
"Will you follow the instructions of your Mistress?"
"Yes. Of course, Gaspazha."
"Then here are my instructions. Go! Go now! This is your Jubilee, your time for rejoicing. I am giving you back to Joseph."
I stand transfixed; barely able to believe what she is saying. She takes my arm and pulls me to the ship’s rail, pushing me to climb up onto the slippery polished metal.
The yacht is beginning to gather speed. I stand there, perched, one leg either side of the rail, held fast by indecision, scared to leave the ship, scared to leave this world, like a bird which has alighted on a ship in mid ocean. What can I do? What should I do?
As I stand on the slippery rail of my owner’s yacht, my owner’s wife is telling me to escape. To leave them. To turn my back on everything I have done in order to be their slave. I have learned to be obedient but now I want to disobey. To stay. To be the person they have made me. To live in a world where all I need to be is obedient. To do just exactly as I am told.
But now she is sending me away. I am so afraid. She wants me to leave? Am I really going back? Am I really to go home?
I have to follow her instructions. I have been taught so thoroughly, trained so carefully, always to follow instructions of my superiors. I am standing unsteadily on the rail. Gaspazha holds my hand to steady me. Suddenly there is no hand and she plants a terrific slap on my bum.
It’s a signal to my body to do what my mind cannot decide on. By reflex my thighs contract driving me outwards and clear of the boat. For a few moments I am air-borne until I hit the cold harbour waters and disappear beneath with the same chilling shock that I felt when I first stepped outside of the dacha. I hear the roaring of the water in my ears as I disappear beneath the surface and then the vibration of the Yacht’s engines growing dimmer and dimmer with each second. The water is cold around me. I arch up to the surface and in an instant my head is in the warm summer air.
As I break water, I hear Sveta’s voice, metallic, distorted by a loud hailer. "Mr McEwan! Mr and Mrs Palmer! One moment, please!" she is calling as you might call to someone that has forgotten something. "Mr McEwan! Mr and Mrs Palmer! One moment please!" Sveta’s voice carries clear over the water. Other couples and passers-by turn towards it. I see my father look sharply up; then Joe. They are looking out over the water, trying to make sense of why they should be called. I turn one last time, to see Sveta waving and pointing to me in the water. I know now I must try to reach them. I wave and one of them turns towards me, to Vyera or to Jennifer - swimming towards them in the water
As I reach the shallows, I struggle out and clamber onto the quay. I stand before them. They look at me. Astonished. Uncomprehending. Still not understanding what is happening. Not knowing who it is, who stands before them.
I have spent so long aware of the ways in which I am changing that it is almost no surprise to me that I am unrecognizable to my closest family and to my husband. I glance from face to face to face. They look back at me with puzzled stares, my dark skin, a muscular hairless body, naked beneath a borrowed dress, seeming like some alien creature.
I turn to the man I have tried ever-so-hard to cherish in my most secret place, the man that in spite of everything I could not make myself forget. I say, "It is me Joe. I am sorry I have been so long. I can go back if you do not want me anymore?"
A part of me almost hopes that he will give his permission.
Andrew, Joe and Inga are sitting on the quay, after walking from the restaurant back towards the city. It has been a perfect end to a lovely day except that the days are always stained, stained by the fact that Jenny is no longer with them.
It is not just her absence, it is not knowing what has become of her, whether she is alive somewhere and might come back one day, or whether she has died and is no more.
Each of them feels it differently, each at different times, but all of them feel it. If only they knew, then they could rest, they think. A few months ago, they thought of her every day. Now, they do not think of her so often. She is always close to them, the memory of her is always nearby, but they each notice that the mundane business of ‘every day’ is pushing her memory aside now, much more than ever it used to.
So they sit. Inga is snuggled close to Andrew watching the world go by and wondering if it might be time to go back to the summer house. A slight chill is in the air, now and the sun is low in the sky. The buildings across the harbour are dark, in shadow because of the brightness of the setting sun. The boats are also dark shapes. Gliding smoothly into births or out of port. Inga is aware of a large yacht moving in front of them on the far side of the channel but she doesn’t pay much attention, only recognising that it is passing by, interrupting her thoughts ….
Andrew is thinking about Jennifer’s disappearance; asking himself whether she has just left her parents and Joseph for something else. He can’t believe it of her. He thinks of the last sighting that is known of her; the report by the old lady of the bare headed girl speaking to another woman. For Andrew that must have been Jennifer, speaking to the person who precipitated her disappearance, or abduction – or murder. Hardly a day goes by, in which he does not think of her and the pain inside is always the same. Just as real. When he was in the army, death was a constant companion. Now, he repeats again to himself the poem he used to say in his mind when colleagues went out on patrol, never to return:
"Death is nothing at all. I have just slipped away into the next room. Whatever we once were to one another, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name and speak to me in the easy way you always used. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, somewhere very near … " (7)
Except that death, in time, brings closure. Disappearance leaves an open, raw, bleeding wound.
On this summer’s evening, in the city where he met and fell in love with Inga, he feels these uncomfortable anxious thoughts creep up on him. He sighs. He knows that they had come to say goodbye; to say ‘goodbye’ to Jennifer. He and Inga brought Joseph so that he would know that they knew he had to move on with his life, too. He wanted them all to leave a good memory of her here, of family holidays, good fellowship with relatives, of a lively little girl growing up towards adult hood, of a loving wife.
Joe was very uncertain about coming on holiday with Andrew and Inga. When he is with Inga and Andrew the loss of Jenny is brought much closer, biting into him more deeply than it does normally and he knew, just knew the moment Inga ‘phoned and made the suggestion, he knew that they were all going to Stockholm to say goodbye to Jenny. He knew Inga and Andrew were telling him that if he felt it was time to move on with his life, then they understood and it was OK for him to do the best he could.
Joe is wrestling with a tangled knot of emotions. He wants Jenny back. He doesn’t want to say a final good bye but he knows he can’t go on as he is. He is infatuated with Gwenda or maybe something more. The time they spent together earlier in the summer still makes his mouth water every time he thinks about it. And yet Gwenda had told him he should come here to Stockholm. And she said she would be in Stockholm too; a sort of analgesic to look forward to if his feelings became too raw, as the days went on. And maybe, Joe thinks, maybe it is neutral ground for me to introduce Inga and Andrew to Gwenda?
So Inga, Andrew and Joe sit on a bench on the Djugården Quay, watching the world go by on a warm summer’s evening, enjoying the after effects of a good dinner, and sitting quietly with their own thoughts.
Each of them knows what their thoughts probably are. About Jenny. Jenny as a child. Jenny as a teenager here in Stockholm enjoying holidays with Inga’s relatives. Jenny as a university student doing holiday jobs here. Jenny and Joe as a young married couple. And then no Jenny at all. Just an empty void where she once was. But not quite a void. It’s a blank space which gnaws and aches and nags them, demanding their attention.
But for Joe, there’s an almost sacrilegious moment that comes crowding in as he stares down at his feet. In that moment, as he drops his head, his thoughts have shifted and he is on his knees. He is naked. He is rubbing his lips over Gwenda’s bare feet, exploring the spaces between her toes with his tongue, enjoying the warm leathery smell of them. He is plotting his journey to her ankles, up her calves, between her thighs and into her ‘gina. To rub his lips over her other lips. To enjoy the heady scent of a woman becoming aroused. A woman starting to get wet. A woman in heat. A woman who wants …
Suddenly there is a voice: hard, brittle, and metallic, coming from somewhere across the water. "Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please!"
The three of them respond, slowly at first, not really realizing that they have heard their own names. And then, their own thoughts are rudely pushed aside by the call.
"Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please!"
The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing across the water. As they look up, a large yacht is disappearing off to their left, and there seems to be a woman on the deck waving, but surely not waving at them?
At first only Joe can sees the swimmer. Has the boat just missed running them down? Is the woman on the boat asking them to look after whoever it is in the water, to see that the swimmer is all right? You can swim in Stockholm Harbour but not usually in this part.
And about the person in the water: have they come from the boat itself? Why should they do that? The boat can only just have cast off, because it is making for the deep water channel out into the Baltic.
In his curiosity about the person in the water, Joe doesn’t ask himself how the woman on the boat knows who they are and overlooks the fact that none of them knows anyone with a boat like that.
Andrew, Joe and Inga are all equally puzzled by this bizarre turn of events. Andrew says to Joe, "Clients of yours? You could do with some more who can afford a yacht like that."
And Inga adds, "maybe someone we know must have come into money?"
Joe points out the person swimming towards them. "But look, there is someone in the water"
Completely disconcerted, Joe and the Palmers wait for the swimmer to reach the shore. Other bystanders watch as well, intrigued by what is going on.
The swimmer has had to cover at least one hundred and fifty metres and it takes them several minutes before they reach the shore and rise up out of the water.
Out climbs what looks like a young shaven headed muscular boy except that the boy is wearing a black dress. As the water streams off him, the dress clings to his skin and its quite clear that he is naked underneath and also that he is not a boy at all, but a girl.
For a moment Joe’s face breaks into a broad smile. Gwenda! He’s sure it’s Gwenda! What on earth is the girl playing at? It’s not how he would have introduced her to Inga and Andrew and what, for goodness sake, is she doing jumping overboard from a yacht and why was she on the yacht in the first place?
The three of them, Inga, Andrew and Joe, stare at this apparition from the sea as this strange, brown skinned girl looks up at them and says, "It’s me Joe. They said I could come back. Do you still want me?"
In that instant, Inga and Andrew know that it is Jenny. All the incomprehension vanishes. They know it is Jenny! Inga knows that it’s Jenny because of the way she moves her head as she looks up. She has always moved her head like that, since she was ever-so-tiny. Inga’s little girl! It is her! She has come back! And for the moment that feeling crowds out any other questions - ‘What has happened to her?’, ‘How is it that she is suddenly here?’ - None of that matters.
Andrew knows that it’s Jenny too, though his own first reaction is to ask himself what the hell the girl has been playing at? Has she been in Stockholm all the time? And if she has, why didn’t she turn up at the summer house instead of emerging from the water like some sort of Labrador retriever, coming back with a stick? And then his eyes are full of tears, his throat closed up. He glances away, to blink the stinging tears out of his eyes. There is so much he wants to say, but he cannot say anything. He just stands and gazes and slowly shakes his head and smiles, sighs and cries. His little girl is back. Back after, oh, so long. Back as inexplicably as she left. She vanished into thin air and she has returned just as suddenly, but this time from the cold dark waters of Stockholm harbour.
Inga turns to Joe. He is just gazing blankly at the strange apparition, just as lost and unsure and astonished as Inga was. And then she - Jenny - stretches her arms out to him.
And then it dawns on Joe, he is looking … at Jenny. His disappeared wife, restored as a mermaid from the sea. It’s her: it is Jenny! Oh my God, it’s Jenny!
He stands there as if frozen in stone. The two of them look at each other. She says "It really is me Joe. I am so sorry I have been so long."
He can’t form any words.
And then she says, "Do you still want me? I can go back. You do not have to have me if you do not want me anymore…"
He should be glad, overjoyed, exultant but first, there is crushing disappointment. This is Jenny. Jenny means pain. For Joe, Jenny means trying to be someone who he isn’t. Jenny means worry. Anxiety. Dismay. Loss. Embarrassment. Jenny had gone and he feels he should have started over. Started with Gwenda. Started with someone who seemed to be a much easier person to be with. Such wild unrestrained overpowering fun.
And yet. And yet. Tears fill Joe’s eyes. The idea that he might "not want her anymore". This is the girl he mourned for. Earnestly sought for. Tried new things for. Would go anywhere for. The story of his search for this girl is inked on his back. The indelible mark of his deep inside desire to be reunited with her is there. And now this girl is standing before him asking:" do you still want me? I can go back, if you do not want me anymore."
This girl - his wife - stretches her arms out towards Joe. He stretches his arms out to her. They stretch out over six hundred lonely days and nights. Over dismay. Anger. Fear. Tears. Despair. Loneliness. Over Gwenda. Over his resolution to ‘start over’.
The two of them are tentative. As if even the touching would burst a bubble and in an instant, they might both vanish from one another.
They stretch towards each other. So far. So very far.
Joe feels her fingers touch his; cold, hard, trembling. Their fingers close around each other’s. And hold. They draw close and embrace. It seems to take hours. At last they are holding each other and in each other’s arms.
Joe tries to think back to when they last held each other. In London, that sunny autumn day, Long ago.
He bends his head to touch hers and the two of them are wracked with sobs. Not caring how this has come to be or why but only happy that it has.
So there they stand, in tears, in each other’s arms, in the gathering twilight as a cool breeze plays around them and the light fades. And Jenny only looks away once towards the yacht which has vanished into the gathering darkness before Andrew puts his arms around them all to guide them back home, turning them away from the other people on the harbour side who have been watching them. He, his wife and Joe have only two thoughts at this moment, "Jenny, thank heavens you’re back," and "Jenny where on earth have you been?"
On board the yacht "Andrei Tupolev" (8) as it cruises through Stockholm harbor, Anatoly Kustensky is enjoying an evening glass of champagne when his wife abruptly gets up from the table and follows Vyera out on to the deck.
He is aware of a conversation, but takes no real notice.
His thoughts are on what they will do when they reach Tallinn, their next port of call but then, without warning, he hears Sveta’s voice, magnified and distorted, through a the loud hailer. ‘Mr McEwan. Mr and Mrs Palmer. One moment please’
Anatoly reacts at once. He knows the names instantly; McEwan and Palmer, Vyera’s husband and parents in her former life. What on earth is Sveta playing at, he thinks?
He follows his wife out onto the stern deck, just as one of the crew, startled by someone diving from the boat, arrives as well.
Sveta is waving to three people ashore and pointing to a fourth figure in the water, swimming away from the boat ...
"Sveta, just what on earth is going on?"
"There." Sveta points to a swimmer who is striking out, cutting through the water, making for the shore. "There she is!"
"Who?"
"Vyera of course."
"Vyera?"
"Look, that’s her parents and her husband. See? There on the quay." Sveta seems transfixed by the view out across the harbor. To Anatoly she sounds manic, completely unaware of the significance of what she has done.
"But Sveta ….?"
"Yevgeny was in touch. I knew they were in Stockholm and well, Stockholm is not that large, so there was always the chance of a meeting. And I wanted to do something good." Sveta is talking quickly, obsessively, glancing over her shoulder almost at every other word to see how close Vyera is getting to the shore. "Vyera gave us all we – you – wanted. It seemed appropriate, somehow. Being good feels rather more satisfying than being cruel. I have had enough of cruelty. Her collar malfunctioned and had to be removed. If I was more religious I would say it was a sign that her time with us was over. We have enjoyed her and now she must go back to her husband and her parents. After all, she will always love them. We cannot buy her love nor offer more than theirs."
Her words tumble out but the force of them proves to Anatoly that this is not just deranged rambling. Anatoly gazes across at his tough, decisive wife, open mouthed at what she is saying and what she has done.
He notices she is crying.
"Oh, Anatoly but I will so miss her. She was so much fun. It was almost like having another daughter. We should have had more children of our own Tolya. If only I had been strong and brave enough."
In the pit of his stomach, Anatoly instantly feels a tide of nausea break over him, followed by fear and dread. It doesn’t take much to imagine the consequences of this; one of their slaves, leaping from their world back into the outside world. He is appalled. He says nothing but he’s thinking, "Oh Sveta! Sveta! What on earth is this impulsive, reckless, romantic, dangerous thing have you done?"
And he’s asking himself, what on earth he is going to do about it?
Joe holds me all the way back to the summer house By the time we reach there, night has fallen and we leave the taxi and walk up the path, through the trees and into the house.
The smell is instantly familiar from childhood and many visits since then. The polished pine floors, the coffee and somewhere the sweet lingering aroma of quince.
Mummy is at my side. She offers me some towels, a T shirt and tracksuit bottoms. She says she will make some coffee and asks me if I want to shower. She’s trying to cope with what must be an extraordinary situation with ordinary actions. They must all want to ask so many questions but none of them press. All of them seem to want to pick things up as if nothing has happened. I know that can’t go on. Mummy keeps the conversation practical. "You must take a shower. You’ll be so cold."
Must. I can respond to that. I nod, acquiescing, and take the towels. Joe follows me as I go through to the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything as I go inside.
Do I want a shower? It has been so long since I was allowed to want anything for myself. Now I can just go and have a shower just because I want to have a shower. It seems wrong, somehow. Improper. Of course, they do not know yet. Their daughter and Joseph’s wife is a slave. She is owned. Her place is to look to the needs of others and make do for herself with what remains.
And she still is a slave, not was a slave. I don’t feel I have escaped. I do not remember Gaspazha telling me she was giving me my freedom. All I remember was Gaspazha telling me that she was sending me to Joe. I was a slave in Russia who belonged to Gaspadeen Anatoly Sergeyevitch and Gaspazha Svetlana Nikitechna. I am still their slave but now, I have been sent to my husband and parents here in Sweden but I am still their slave and will still be their slave just as surely if we return to Britain.
The dress has shrunk against me cold and tight and stiff. In the shower it takes an effort to break its grip on me and peel it off. So, even the dress knows! It is almost as though the dress (their dress) is reminding me that I have not broken free, that I have merely been sent on another errand.
I do not linger long in the bathroom and emerge wrapped in the towels and carrying the borrowed clothes (Of course: how could it be otherwise? Slaves have nothing of their own) and go to Joe’s bedroom. Actually, I suppose that is our bedroom. How strange that sounds. To have a bedroom of my own to share and not to visit the bedroom of someone else to serve them in some way.
There is something else I have to do now, but what? Of course! I shall have to get dressed! I can no longer spend my days naked. What a nuisance! As I turn to the bed I find Joe. He has stolen into the room. He looks at me and I at him. I see him gasp and put his hand to his mouth as he gazes at me.
"Jenny … what has … what did they … Oh Jenny!"
"What’s the matter?"
"It’s your skin and …"
He points to the rings closing my labia and gently traces his finger along the beautiful marks made by Gaspazha Sveta’s whip. How I shall miss that whip and the other whips which have caressed my body. He looks at the slave mark on my breast, unable to understand what he sees.
I know they will press me with so many questions. I have no idea how I can answer them and not put Joe and Mummy and Daddy in horrible danger. Some will be easy like this, some will be much harder. "It’s my slave number, Joseph. My number and my record on the Asset Register. I was disobedient and I was marked. Here … and here … and here – oh, and here, to help me understand who I am. I am sorry Joe, if I am a disappointment to you."
"Jenny. Jenny. Stop it! Of course you are not a disappointment. I have wanted you for so long. What does it matter if you bring with you a few marks and rings? But we are going to find these people, Jenny. Call them to account for what they have done to you - and done to us!"
What is he talking about? Find Gaspadeen and Gaspazha?
They do not need to be found. I know exactly where they are. I have the telephone numbers of the Dacha, of Vitali and Alana’s house in Moscow, of Gaspazha Neena’a mobile, and the email address I must use. I have all these in my head.
"Jenny, in the morning we will have to go to the Police. Tell them. Report what has happened."
"Report what has happened? Report what? What has happened is that I have been sent to you. Why should I report my Owners to the Police for sending me to you? Joseph: I have been sent back to you. Be grateful for what you have been given!"
He looks at me astonished, not understanding what I am saying.
Suddenly Mummy comes into the room. Her presence breaks the tension. "Coffee is ready. Come through to the lounge. Daddy has poured us all some aquavit." Another injection of enforced normality. She takes hold of my elbow, gently propelling me out of the room and away from Joe’s incomprehension.
In the Family Room I can sit in a chair, not kneel on the floor. How odd it seems and in silence we drink coffee. Daddy hands round Aquavit. It burns down into my tummy. It begins to take effect. Curiosity begins to smoulder. They haven’t pressed me to talk, for nearly an hour, but finally curiosity sparks into life. Joe breaks the silence, "Jenny darling, what on earth happened? Where have you been? How did you get to look like this?"
"No Joe, please." Please don’t ask, don’t ever ask. You must never ask."
There is panic in my voice and I am sure there must be panic on my face as I reply to him.
"Don’t you see? This is a fairy tale. I was taken ... unwillingly ... You must always know that Joe ... unwillingly... And now I’ve been given back. It’s a fairy tale. Magical. But fairy tales, especially Russian ones can have bad endings if you look at the magic too closely, or try to know and understand it too much. If you still want me, Joseph, you can never ask. And if you don’t want me, I’ll go ... but you still can never know
They take my words for confusion about the past but it’s much more than that. It’s uncertainty about the future. They told me I would be executed if I ran away. Can I ever be safe? What will I do when they send for me again? When they want me back? When I open our door, or go to work or go shopping and suddenly find Gaspazha Neena standing in my way, telling me my time here is over. I am to go with her. Back into captivity?
In time, the effects of the coffee and aquavit take hold. Their warmth and the events of the day conspire together. I can hardly keep awake. Joe leads me back to the bedroom and in seconds I am falling into a black void, or so it seems. I am sure that when I wake up, I will be safe in my cell on the Andrei Tupolev once more. Ready to resume my slavery. My vocation.
EPILOGUE: A SWIM IN DREVVIKEN
The summer house stands on a small bluff overlooking the lake. (9) It is a classic of 1930’s Swedish domestic architecture. The bedrooms are small. The kitchen is very "efficient". The bathroom is spaceous and the public areas where the family meets and enjoys each other’s company – are large and enjoy airy views.
In Stockholm, the summer sun rises between 3 and 4 am. It sends streams of light into the east facing bedrooms.
Jenny is awake early. In most of her mind she is still Vyerochka and is thinking about her tasks for the day. She is out of bed and into the kitchen to unpack the dishwasher, set out breakfast and make coffee for Joe.
Inga pads up behind her: she places her arms round her daughter, something she had thought she would never do again.
"God dag litten flika!" Good morning, little girl!"
Jenny starts, surprised that her mother had spoken to her in Swedish, her second - no, now her third language.
By force of habit, she replies in Russian, then English and finally Swedish
"I’m sorry Mamma, I thought I would be alone. I was going to wake Joe and then maybe go for a swim ..."
"Yes, Inga replies, Yes, do that. I will keep out of the way for you and make sure your father does, too."
She looks down at herself and across at her mother, cuddled in a long white dressing gown. She had forgotten that now and in the future, she would not be expected to spend her days naked. More unfamiliar normality.
Jenny goes back into the bedroom. She sits on the bed and strokes Joe’s hair from his face. He opens one eye.
"Coffee?"
"Oh, er coff … coffee, yes thanks Jenny that would be … be great." It’s a surprisingly normal question, a surprisingly normal reaction. She was away for so long and now she’s back. She’s dark skinned, muscular, whip marked, numbered, pierced and ringed and they are talking about coffee.
During the night Joe had been tortured by dreams in which Jenny kept disappearing, then reappearing only to disappear once more. He had found Gwenda but she never knew where Jenny was. He studies her for a moment. Her body is strange but that doesn’t matter. They embrace; glad to feel each other’s bodies once again.
There is a path through the garden that drops steeply between rocks to end on a wooden walkway. The path carries onwards through reeds and boulders to the lakeside. The early morning is very still and the lake flat calm, as a sheet of glass. Mist hangs over the water and obscures the opposite side.
Hand in hand, the two naked young people walk into the water. Naked? The lake side is secluded and this is Scandinavia, after all. For a moment it hurts. Joe makes no complaint as the cold water rises up his legs and chest. It reassures him that he is not dreaming; that his wife really is beside him again after all these months. There needs be no ‘starting over.’ Now they can start again.
For Jenny, the water is just as cold, but for her, the cold reminds her, underlines to her that her life has changed again; she is home; she is safe and yet there is - the sting of parting. What will become of the little baby Dmitry? His young parents Alana and Vitaly? Neena? Andrei? Julia? Sveta and Anatoly? It is true – she misses them. She had begun to love them too.
Together, they strike out from the bank. Now the water has become a cool caress, easing tense muscles, opening their lungs to the morning air. Beneath them Drevviken vanishes into green, brown depths. Around then, the banks of mist drift mysteriously. Behind them, the summer house stands on the bluff, and a thin Swedish standard snakes and whips from a flagstaff in the gentle breeze: blue and gold, blue and gold.
In the lounge of the summer house, Inga Palmer gazes down over the garden and across the lake, to watch her daughter and son in law enjoying the freedom of the water, free at last from the anxiety of not knowing whether they would ever be all together again. She sips her coffee. Elation wells up within her. She doesn’t care where Jenny has been or what has gone on, she only cares that her daughter has been restored to her. Can the summer house have ever seen a happier day?
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………
(1) For further information about Êàíàìë èììåíè Ìîñêâû, (try "Kanal Eemyeni Maskvi" ), in other words, the Moscow Volga Canal on Wikipedia
(2) Dvoryanstvo, part of the Russian nobility.
(3) For further information on yachts built in Moscow, see the Timmerman Yachts website. We thought Anatoly might have chosen a Timmerman 33!
(4) We thought The Central River Yacht Club might be suitable.
(5) Readers up to speed with the world of Ballet will know that The Mariinsky has changed its name recently and used to be known at The Kirov. Actually, since its foundation it has been The Imperial Ballet, then The Soviet Ballet, then The Kirov Ballet and now The Mariinsky Ballet!
(6) Inspired by a flogger made by Heartwood Whips. The Heartwood Company may not be operational at the moment and you might want to try Essentia Whips in the UK who according to their website, can also produce whips in lots of colours.
(7) From a sermon by Henry Scott Holland, 1847-1918, Canon at St Pauls Cathedral, London
(8) Andrei Tupolev, a Russian engineer and aviation pioneer
(9) Lake Drevviken, Stockholm
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2011
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