Imposter Syndrome – that’s what Lucas calls it. He thinks it’s a joke.
A buzzer sounds as Rachel pushes open the door. Ivan starts to grizzle beneath his balaclava, but she is already distracted. The shop is full of machines. Some are encased in shrink-wrap plastic. A few are still boxed, while others are stacked up to the ceiling in twos and threes. Recessed lighting spreads its soft sheen over the ceramic plates of an electric hob, the curved glass door of a tumble dryer. No harsh fluorescent strips here. Rachel pulls off a glove, ready to touch.
‘Dobry dyen!’ A young woman, skinny in a tight blue dress with black hair and pale, pearlescent lipstick, appears from behind a row of air conditioning units. Rachel hides her hand in her pocket.
‘Dobry dyen…’ she says, her nerves returning. ‘Do you speak English?’
The young woman frowns. ‘Mykola!’ she calls, not looking away.
‘You see I’m doing a survey, a consumer survey. It’s for the UN and I wonder if you’d mind…’
The woman has disappeared; Rachel is now talking to herself. She peers round a box with ‘INDESIT’ printed on the side. A door is ajar, but she cannot see anything through the gap. It must lead to a back office, because there’s no desk in this part of the shop, no telephone, no paperwork; just the appliances, some packaging and a bentwood stand in the corner from which hangs a man’s dark overcoat and a lozenge-shaped hat. The hat is made of a black fur that undulates in silky soft waves like the coat of a newborn lamb. Astrakhan, or something like that. If he could reach it, Ivan would clutch it in his fingers, bring it to his mouth. She moves away, stifling the urge to run her forefinger along its rippled crown.
A man’s voice exclaims from close behind her.
‘A baby? Yes! A nice good little baby!’
She tries to turn round, but someone is scooping Ivan out of his carrier and the sudden loss of his weight makes her lose her balance.
‘Such beautiful cheeks – like apples! A boy, no? So strong… and it is so cold this afternoon!’
With a sharp shrug, Rachel shucks off the baby carrier and twists round to see Ivan in the arms of a man who is perhaps in his early forties – slim, balding, not tall, with a thick moustache and dark eyes fringed with full lashes. His face seems familiar, though this might be because there are many men with moustaches in Kiev. He’s wearing a suit, an expensive one, and Ivan is already crushing its lapel in his chubby little fist.
‘Please,’ she says, aware that this is not the first time she’s had to ask a stranger to stop touching her baby. However, this man isn’t like the caretaker. His eyes register her distress and he passes Ivan back to her straight away.
‘A baby needs his mother,’ he says. His voice is deep and accented, with an emphasis that suggests his delight in speaking English. He nods at the baby carrier. ‘It is good to visit places together. So,’ he stands formally, heels touching, ‘in what way may I help you?’
‘Oh.’ Rachel frowns. ‘Do you have a price list you can show me? I’m doing – I am conducting a survey.’ She fumbles with the flap of her bag, tugs her other glove off with her teeth and produces the thick file of paper. ‘It’s for the UN. A consumer survey to help them establish the cost of living for their staff in Kiev. I have to find three prices for everything. Food items, services, soft furnishings, electrical goods…’
The man doesn’t move. He is smiling at Ivan, who is wriggling, straining away from her as if he wants to be put down. Rachel forgets the rest of her carefully prepared speech.
‘You work for the UN?’ he asks, holding out his finger so that Ivan can grasp it.
‘No,’ she says, hoping Ivan won’t pull it towards his mouth. ‘I’m–’ there is an official phrase but the words veer away from her – ‘a third party. The UN always asks a third party to do the survey.’ She feels embarrassed now, just as she knew she would. It sounds so ridiculous, saying words like ‘the UN’ as if she’s their spokesperson or something. She isn’t remotely credible, standing here with a baby, feigning competence and importance in her snow boots. This man, this Mykola will see right through her and send her straight back out on to the street. ‘My husband works for the BBC,’ she adds, knowing before the words come out of her mouth that this sounds even more ridiculous.
Mykola takes her seriously, even so.
‘Ah,’ he says, nodding. ‘BBC. World Service. Very good. Good to have you here in Ukraina. And the United Nations. Also very good. Kiev, London, New York. You respect us and we respect you – joint enterprise, START treaty – this is how it is now. But a survey…’ He reaches out and takes the file from Rachel’s hand. ‘A survey is a special thing. Prices are a delicate matter. With inflation, with our kouponi – as a wife, as a mother you know how it is. Viktoria!’
With a flick of her hair the young woman returns. Mykola hands her the survey and nods, murmuring something in Russian.
‘She will make a copy. One for you, and one for me. Okay?’
Rachel stares helplessly as the woman retreats behind the door. She hears a beep, then a wheezing sound as a machine warms up.
‘So,’ he says. ‘In a few minutes we can talk about this survey. First, some coffee? No? I can see you are interested in appliances. You are new here. You have apartment, a baby. You need things! What do you like? Bosch? You like German I think?’
Rachel tries to concentrate on what the man is saying, but now she is aware of another difficulty. A sweetish smell, cloying and rancid, rises up from her son. Ivan is filling his nappy. The odour is spreading fast and because he has nappy rash he will soon start to scream. She will have to get him out of here. She must find somewhere she can change him, though there’s nowhere but the snow.
‘The survey…’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go – my son…’
Mykola’s dark eyes look concerned, sympathetic.
‘Your son needs some attention, I think. Please, there is no need for you to leave. Viktoria will help you. Here.’ He doesn’t touch her; instead he guides her towards the door behind which Viktoria disappeared and pushes it open. ‘Take your time.’
Rachel sees a new-looking photocopier. The survey whirs through its innards. Viktoria, holding the empty ring-binder, glances at the man and there’s only the faintest flicker of disgust before she steps aside. There’s a desk on which sits the grey bulk of a computer, but the beige carpeted floor is clean and Rachel is grateful, absurdly grateful as she kneels down, lays Ivan on the floor and unzips his snowsuit. Viktoria retreats, and the man speaks to her softly. They both stay in the shop, which is just as well, because Ivan’s bottom is as ghastly as Rachel fears. Pale faeces are already leaking out of the soaked nappy, caking his skin and soiling his clothes. When she lifts away his vest, the stench fills the airless room. She finds some baby wipes and a spare nappy in her bag, but the sores are like craters, glistening and inflamed. Ivan whimpers as she cleans him; he twists his head and arcs his back. Quickly she secures the straps of the new nappy, removes the stained vest and returns him to his clothes. If she was back in the apartment she’d feed him now, but she can’t do that here so instead she licks her little finger and inserts it into his mouth for him to suck. He accepts it greedily, his grey eyes fixed on hers.