Milena looked at the phantasmagorical waste on the desk and the floor. Books, more books, papers with pawprints across them, old coins. These were real things, the real things that Milena had never seen. She began to feel an ache of jealousy, an ache of nostalgia. This is history, she thought, let the Vampires see this. She picked up a thick black book and opened up its crinkly pages, and realised that it had not been printed. The lettering, in fantastic sweeps and swirls of black ink, had been written by hand.
Penetrating Wagner’s Ring, the lettering said with an excess of eloquent strokes.
‘Not a fortunate title,’ murmured Milena, a smile creeping sideways across her face.
It was an exposition of the Ring cycle. There were drawings of all the characters, slightly amateurish in execution. Each one was identified, not by name, but by a series of notes. The last page said only ‘Conclusion: the Ring cycle is a symphony.’ It was written in gold.
‘That’s not right,’ said Milena. It was not what her viruses told her.
But the clock in her mind told her the labour-hours it must have taken.
‘Bugger,’ said a voice, and a rack of dresses collapsed somewhere in the darkness. Milena hurriedly dropped the book. The GE emerged carrying boots.
‘Typical of me, somehow, that title,’ the GE said.
She’s seen me reading her book, Milena thought, and went rigid with embarrassment.
‘I console myself,’ the GE continued, ‘with the thought that there was a book of piano exercises that really did call itself Fingering for Your Students. Here are your boots. Try them for size.’
Milena pulled one of them on, feeling awkward. She hopped up and down on one foot and thought she was going to fall over. Her cheeks felt full and flushed.
‘Fit?’
‘Yes, yes, I think they do,’ Milena replied. She really couldn’t tell. She pulled the boot off again. The GE belched roughly. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, covering her mouth.
‘You sing very well,’ said Milena, surprising herself. Her viruses told her that the Polar Bear sang quite as well as anyone at the Zoo.
‘Ah,’ said the GE and shrugged. ‘I suppose I do, yes.’ She blinked. ‘Why don’t you take this with you.’
She gave Milena the Mahler score, yellow and plump.
‘You might as well have these too.’ She slapped on a Shostakovich and a Prokofiev. ‘Don’t tell anyone they’re Russian.’ Russians were not in favour.
‘I can’t take them,’ said Milena. She didn’t want them. The GE stared back at her dolefully.
‘Really. I think I’m blocked from taking them.’
She didn’t know if that were true. ‘I think I’m supposed to feel that they belong to everyone.’ She did know that the scores were too valuable to be given away so lightly. Milena held out the scores back towards her. There was a fruity smell of booze and lanolin.
‘Ah,’ the GE said, and blinked, her eyes distant and unfocused. She took the papers, and held them low and level just over the top of the desk before letting them drop.
‘What’s your name?’ Milena asked.
‘My name?’ said the Polar Bear, and sniffed and smiled. ‘Well, let’s see if I remember it. Rolfa.’ She grinned ‘Woof woof.’
‘I’m Milena, Milena Shibush.’
‘Milena,’ said the GE and bowed. ‘Shall I show you the way out?’
‘The door is locked,’ said Milena.
‘Ah! I have the key,’ replied Rolfa. ‘Here, hold on to my hand so you won’t get lost.’
Rolfa’s hand was as large as a cat curled up on a carpet and just as warm. It enveloped Milena’s hand and most of her forearm. It was ridiculous. Milena’s heart was pounding, and when she turned to say goodbye, Milena could only gabble. The words were confused. The Polar Bear just smiled and shut the gate. Milena felt as though she had had some kind of narrow escape.
Walking back alongside the wall of brick, Milena finally saw the windows, high overhead. They had been there all along, but she had never noticed them. Windows in a bridge.
CHAPTER TWO
A Dog of a Song
(Coming out of the Shell)
People lived in communities called Estates. Estates were based around one economic activity, but each Estate had services of its own: a market and a laundry, plumbers and street cleaners. Amid the vastness of London, Estates helped keep life on a human scale.
Milena lived in the Estate for actors. The dormitory had once been the offices of an oil company, so everyone called it the Shell. It was built around a courtyard, like two vast, sheltering concrete-and-marble arms.
The Shell had its own messenger service. Every morning, every lunchtime, and at six o’clock each evening, Jacob the Postperson called to see if Milena had any messages.
Jacob was a small, finely boned, shiningly gentle black man, and he made Milena feel horrid and mean because he bored her.
‘Good morning, Milena,’ he would say with a delightful smile and dead exhausted eyes.
‘Good morning, Jacob,’ Milena would reply.
‘And how are you today?’
‘Very well, Jacob, thank you.’
‘The weather is looking better.’
‘Yes, Jacob, I suppose it is.’
‘Do you have any messages for me, Milena?’
‘No thank you, Jacob.’
‘Well enjoy your day, Milena.’
‘You too, Jacob.’
His mind had been opened up. He remembered everything, was unable to forget anything. He went from door to door passing messages, reminding people that someone wanted his razor back or that the bus was leaving at three o’clock. He was a way of saving paper. It seemed that he could only talk in an unvarying string of formulae.
‘Good evening, Milena.’
‘Good evening, Jacob.’
That wide enraptured smile as if he were seeing angels.
‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Yes, Jacob. And you?’
‘Oh, very good, Milena, thank you. Do you have any messages for me?’
When his mind was full, it would blank out completely, in a kind of epileptic fit. To avoid lost information, he was cleared at regular intervals.
The day after Milena had visited the Graveyard, Jacob had a message for her. This was an unusual occurrence. Milena did not receive many messages.
‘I have a message for you, Milena. From Ms Patel.’
‘Who? Who is Ms Patel, Jacob?’
‘She is the lady who is covered in fur.’
Oh. Somehow Milena had not thought of Rolfa as a Ms anything.
‘She asks if you would not like to have lunch with her this afternoon. One o’clock by the front steps of the National. Should I tell her that is all right?’
Milena couldn’t think of anything worse. The first meeting had left her disturbed, irritated. Why did Rolfa want to have lunch with her? Milena considered saying that she was busy.
But that would be beneath her high standards.
‘Tell Ms Patel,’ said Milena, ‘that one o’clock will be fine.’
Milena found herself considering what to wear. It was summer and the sky was bright. She would need to shelter from the sun if her complexion was to be preserved. She had two pairs of trousers, one white, one black. She decided to wear the white, with a long-sleeved, high-neck blouse. She also took her gloves and parasol.
Rolfa’s eyes narrowed when she saw her. ‘You’re not taking that thing, are you?’ she said, nodding towards the parasol.
Milena was rather proud of her parasol. It was made of canvas and had thick, brightly coloured stripes and was not at all frilly or mimsy.
‘Of course I’m taking it. It’s part of my job.’
‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Rolfa. ‘Well, there’s nothing for it. Come on.’ She turned and began to lumber off in the direction of Waterloo Bridge. She was wearing nothing but blue running shorts and a pair of very dirty white cloth shoes. One of them had a loose sole. It flapped.