Cyclists in yellow helmets wobble past in the village-quiet Fitzroy evening. I cross a T-junction to an oval, keep to the mesh fence marking its perimeters. The last footballers trudge off in twos and threes.
Heels click rhythm behind me. I turn to see Karen catching up. Since our cafeteria encounter her hair has transformed from rinsed-out henna to a lime-green robin’s nest.
‘Heading my way?’
‘Actually I am going to church.’
‘So go later. Then you’ll have more to confess.’
‘Thanks sincerely. But the service begins soon.’
We fall into step. Approaching the house, the end of a row of terraces facing the oval, I see Jonas leaning against a door open to the veranda. I want to run in the opposite direction. Keep my head – narrowly. Karen cocks hers, expression wise under the silly hair.
‘Isn’t it a long way to come just to be more Russian than in Russia?’
She is the calm, perplexed teacher upbraiding a talented but underperforming student who she still hopes will come good. Reasonably enough under the circumstances – my students have taught me more in a day than I them over an entire semester.
‘Kind of defeats the purpose of your exchange, don’t you reckon? I mean, when do you break out of the bubble? Your business, I just don’t get it, that’s all. Wasting everyone’s time.’
Jonas sees us, sways forward, leers. ‘You’re a fast worker, babe.’
‘Poshol na khuy.’
Where has Karen been hiding that perfect enunciation? In class she can barely recite the alphabet. She stiff-arms aside her ex-boyfriend ex-teacher, who no doubt has taught her that vilest of imprecations. Fuck off does not come close to adequate translation. Russian profanity is on par with vodka – effect not to be underestimated, foreigners beware. They resume their argument more or less where they left off on my back stairs post-dinner. Jonas pursues her inside.
I stay on the street, permit myself a few moments to digest her insights, then head in the direction of the Church of the Holy Trinity. Enright proposed I bring my class here for cultural exposure. It stands sentinel on a corner, bluestone chimney in place of a dome, crosspiece stark white on violet sky. A girl folds hymn lists in a room adjoining the chapel. Red wax candles illuminate incense stands. Above the altar the Holy Mother’s loving gaze locks onto an archangel. For fifty cents I buy an incense stick which the vendor lights from hers. The congregation gathers at the rear of the church. The men stare straight ahead, kneading their hands while the women clutch gladioli, genuflect, mutter prayers. Like me they appear more footloose than pious, there by default or the off-chance of a miracle.
A priest and his retinue, robed in silk vestments, file out from behind the altar screens. Chanting begins in Old Slavonic; long, tumbling, breathless incantations swelling to full-throated paeans to God on High. People bow, cross themselves, shuffle sideways as the procession pauses before a large bible mounted on a wooden stand. Summoning worshippers one by one the priest drapes cloth over their heads and mouths sacraments as they kiss the text. My incense burns out.
‘Go on,’ a woman whispers. ‘Your turn now.’
The priest nods. Someone pushes me forward. Silk cool on my nape, I brush my lips on the waxy page, straightening up only when the bony hand relaxes. The woman smiles, pats me on the back. Faces moon around me, shimmering in the candle-glow.
The sharp yellow edge of a telegram protrudes from my letterbox. Going upstairs I rip it open, tearing off the last two words. Sticky taping it together, I read aloud:
GOT VISA AND TICKETS WILL ARRIVE MELBOURNE 7 AM FRIDAY JUNE 6TH QF418 VIA SYDNEY. LOTS HAS HAPPENED, WILL EXPLAIN ON ARRIVAL. XXOO.
Ululating tomcats on the back stairs jerk me awake five minutes ahead of the alarm. I flop sideways, kill the time display on the digital clock. Clothes lie folded at the foot of the bed: pumice-grey woollen jacket, white wedding shirt, socks matching black shoes buffed to the sheen of my pressed trousers. I straighten the bedcover over fresh sheets, place a sprig of wattle in a glass on the bedside table and ring Silver Top to confirm the taxi is on its way.
I’ve scripted our reunion all week. Victoria Street shops first. Anna will not relax without a prices reconnaissance. Next the 7-Eleven store with its wondrous cascading confectionery vats. Over the road to the MCG parklands. A timely sun shower (I checked the forecast), pretext to snuggle closer. On returning I will hitch up the blinds, place a cushion on the divan, start on dinner, insist she put her feet up, shoo her out of the kitchen. Unsheathe the vegetable knife and roll an onion over the chopping board. Plump and tangy, if a shade green, it will add bite to borscht. Rattle around for a few minutes, murder the recipe all over again, call her in to correct my culinary misstep… dispense with foreplay…
A horn toots from the car park. I slip on my shoes, snib the flywire door and hurry downstairs. The driver, slouched over the bonnet of a green Camry grinds his cigarette underfoot as I approach. His blond hair is teased up from both temples in an unconvincing wreath. I would have gone with a front to back comb-over. Failing that, buzz-cut.
Is this an early male midlife affliction, surreptitiously appraising each other’s thinning crowns? Like dogs sniffing hindquarters? For my last two haircuts the barber avoided handing me a mirror to check the nape view.
‘Air-o-port?’ Accent from my part of the world, or slightly north.
‘Da.’ I settle into the front seat. What odds two identically pattern-balding Russians in the one car in Melbourne collecting my wife? It is enough to turn a man superstitious. Or religious.
Upon entering Punt Road the Camry thrusts into the right lane, triggering horn blasts from behind. We idle behind a P-plater oblivious to the turning arrow.
‘What are you waiting for, a written invitation?’ He squints sideways at me. ‘Meeting someone?’
‘My wife.’
‘She from Moscow too?’
‘Good guess. You’d be from St Petersburg.’
‘That’s right. The real capital.’ The man’s ginger stubble cracks into a smirk.
‘Let’s not talk politics,’ I say. ‘It never leads anywhere.’ Taxi drivers are not people one antagonises.
‘Can’t argue with that. The state the country’s in, you and I might as well fight over a comb.’ I pat my crown.
We are taking circuitous byways for little apparent gain. On the fare meter lighter traffic does not make up for the frequent speed bumps and T-junctions.
‘Why aren’t we on the freeway?’
‘You want to navigate? Fine. The street directory is in the glovebox. If we took the freeway now we’d be jammed arse to bumper till next week. Do I look like I need a dollar that badly?’
The road bisects worn parkland surrounding a zoo, tapers between hugger-mugger cottages on the brow of a hill. Near a concrete culvert it loops back as an underpass feeds cars into airport lanes. We enter at punishing speed, surging past a tight convoy of trucks.
‘How long have you driven cabs?’
‘Three years. Three months less than I’ve been in Melbourne. Knock on any Balaclava door, chances are an unemployed Russian engineer-turned-cabbie will answer. I’m no exception. The earnings go up and down, though it’s easier now I own the car. In principle it’s a free occupation. If I get a run of airport jobs or if it’s hopelessly quiet I knock off early. And of course it’s much safer than back home.’
Corrugated hangars hover into view. High beam lasers from a radar dish scour the dawn. I budgeted for a fifty-dollar fare. The meter ticks thirty-five outside Qantas Domestic Arrivals.