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.
Milena stood her ground. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
Ponderously, the GE turned around. ‘Flitting off to see some of my chums,’ she explained. ‘We are going to a palace of amusement.’
Milena felt an eddy of misgiving. ‘Where?’
‘Across the river. It’s a pub. Do you drink beer?’
‘No,’ replied Milena.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Perhaps they’ll make you some tea.’ Rolfa turned and began to shuffle on ahead. Milena considered simply staying where she was. No, she thought suddenly, I’m not going to let her think I’m afraid of anything. So she followed.
It was a bit like trying to keep up with a brontosaurus. Rolfa’s arms hung down by her sides, and her shoulders were hunched, and each shuffling step seemed both small and slow, but the distance covered was deceptively great. Milena sheltered from the sun and found she had nothing to say. Next time she asks, Milena promised herself, I will be busy.
They made their way through the ruins of Fleet Street. It was now an Estate for boatbuilders, with its own market.
