“Nobody takes milk, do they?” Masha addressed the room by addressing the wall loudly.
“Yes, Mum, I still do. As I always have. Since I was two,” Gabriel answered. He turned to his friend. “Sam?”
“Erm… Not sure if I’ve got time, Gabe. Steve will be here any minute.”
“Have some and just leave it if he comes,” Gabriel said quietly, before directing his voice to where his mother stood waiting quizzically for the outcome of his consultation. “One for Samantha too, please, Mum. With milk.”
“Okay.” Without saying or doing anything at all, Masha somehow transmitted to the room her disapproval of milk-takers (a class of person quite beyond hope) and began to hand out those cups already poured to Max, Zhanna, Isabella, and Nicholas, the worthy ones.
“I think it’s refreshing, anyway—having children young.” Nicholas reached up for his and sipped immediately. He took some strange pride in being able to drink his tea at boiling point. “Good for you.”
“Samantha doesn’t need your approval, Dad.” This from Gabriel.
Masha left the room, presumably to fetch some milk.
“Oh God, no. Lucky thing too. Because I don’t approve of anything, Gabriel, as you know.” Nicholas winked at Samantha.
Gabriel shook his head in adolescent disbelief.
On the sofa, Isabella was torn between wishing that her brother would stop behaving so painfully and wishing that her father would shut up. And all of a sudden she was dying for a cigarette. Ideally, one of the thin Russian ones that her grandfather smoked when he wasn’t on cigars. Perversely, the more the birthday normalized (and normalized all the people in the room), the more she wanted to escape, to feel and to be exotic. Indeed, from within the prism of her sixteen-year-old sensibility, it seemed to her a waste that her grandfather should be forced to witness such domestic tedium. She imagined that Zhanna felt the same and found herself empathizing with the secretary’s scornful silence. Presents, parochial friends, cars, new computer, clothes, tea, cake, this dumb conversation, sixteen itself. She was embarrassed on Grandpa’s behalf. And this new embarrassment lay uneasily, like a wriggling blanket, over all the other embarrassments she was feeling. A cigarette would help. It was strange, though: Grandpa Max could sit so still that he almost disappeared.
“I’m sure yours will be a fine child whatever you name it.” This at last was Max himself, his voice deep, like sand in hot wax from the years of smoking. “You are young and you are fit. That’s the main thing.”
Zhanna pursed.
Masha reentered the room just in time to see her do so.
“It’s Sikhism tea,” said Nicholas as Masha came over with the last two cups, “scientifically proven to help in nine out of ten pregnancies. We all drink it religiously—just in case.”
Gabriel reached up to take charge of Samantha’s cup.
Masha did not sit down but returned to the samovar and began to cut secondary slices of the cake.
And Isabella was now certain that her mother was drawing out her tasks to avoid any serious interaction. But whether something in particular was causing this newfound domestication, she could not determine. Certainly it was unlike her mother not to come into the heart of the conversation, especially when her father was rehearsing his prejudices or behaving like an idiot. Perhaps it was Grandpa’s presence. Perhaps it was the subject matter. Whatever, her mother’s evasion aroused her curiosity. And so, believing her initiative to be a further example of mature social skill, she spoke up.
“Mum, nobody wants any more cake. Leave it. Come and sit down. You’ve done enough.”
Of course Masha was unable to ignore her daughter’s specific appeal, and so, balancing a few more slices on yet another napkin, she came over with a thin smile.
“I know you all like the marzipan and you’re just pretending to like the rest of it, so here are some marzipan bits.” She laid them out on the little table. “Samantha?”
But Samantha did not answer and Masha did not manage to sit down, because just then the doorbell chimed.
“That, we must assume, will be Steve,” Nicholas observed, lighting yet another cigarette.
“Oh shit,” Samantha said. “Oh, sorry. Excuse the French. I’d love some more cake, Maria. But I’m going to have hit the road… Thanks for the tea, though. In fact, thanks for everything.”
“It’s been a pleasure having you.” Masha continued to stand. “Here, take this.” She reached down and gave Samantha a huge slice. “They don’t appreciate it anyway. They just pretend.”
Isabella noticed the deeply disguised relief in her mother’s voice that their pregnant young friend was finally going. Samantha rose. And there followed a chorus of byes and pleased-to-meet-yous as Gabriel escorted her to the door.
Masha sat down beside Isabella
It was obvious that Gabriel was angry from the instant he reappeared in the doorway. It was also clear that he did not wish to confront any one individual—and was feeling the weakness of this—and so he addressed the room at large, raising his voice to compensate.
“I can’t believe you lot. I can’t believe you were all smoking. I just can’t believe it. My friend is pregnant and you’re all sitting there smoking in her face.”
He remained for a moment on the threshold. But his self-consciousness as he stood there—sixteen, acne, too much wet-look gel in his hair, a face of aggrieved incredulity—his self-consciousness undermined the vehemence with which he spoke. Worse, he sensed this and felt compelled to raise the stakes.
“My God, you people are… are… bloody unbelievable.” He wanted to risk saying “fucking,” but something held him back; it felt like a cliché to do so on his sixteenth birthday. “I mean, at the very least you could have shown me some respect, even if you are too rude to give a toss about my friends.”
“Gabriel, please.” Masha returned to her tea, which, in contrast to Nicholas, or by way of obscure counterstrike, she prided herself on drinking when almost cold. “You sound like something off the television,” she added. “Sit down.”
“And asking her all those rancid questions and treating her like she is some kind of a freak. God, it’s disgusting. Just because she is an unmarried mother. Wake up, people, it happens.”
“Climb down off your cross for a few minutes, Gabriel, and have some more birthday cake.” This from Nicholas, who was actually smirking. “Seriously. Take a break. It must be agony up there all year. You can pop back up this evening. Don’t worry, we’ll get you some fresh nails.”
“Dad… just… just…” Gabriel held his hands to his ears and shook his head as though trying to rid himself of some terrible pain. “Just shut up.”
But as ever, Nicholas’s needle was exacting and precise as well as cruel. “It’s fairly obvious that the only person who thinks your friend is a freak, Gabriel, is you. You’d imagine she was about to give birth to some new child of Zeus the way you’re fidgeting around her. The rest of us couldn’t care less if she was married, crippled, half Kazakh, or half pig. Look at us—your mother is a romantic old Marxist, I’m a lazy anarchist, your sister is a spiky little revolutionary, and your grandfather won’t admit to anything. We don’t give a damn. For God’s sake, sit down. Have something to drink if you want. You are allowed.”
“You’re a bloody fascist,” Gabriel muttered.
Gabriel was in the mood to have an individual fight with his father now. And these could be truly horrific. And above all else, Isabella did not wish to jeopardize the evening. She could restrain herself no longer. It was the first time ever that she had asked: “Dad, now that Samantha is gone, can I have a cigarette? And can you give one to Gabriel too? If you haven’t guessed, we both smoke. And he’s got really bad withdrawal.”