Fodorova In the Blood

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-913665-61-6
Verlag: Arachne Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 180 Seiten

London 1988: Agata grew up in post-war Prague and believes that her mother was the only member of her family to survive the Holocaust. But not everyone died. Agata's search for her 'lost' family, set against the background of revolutions in Eastern Europe, threatens to tear apart not only the family she already has, but her own identity.

Anna Fodorova was born in Prague, and was stranded in England by the Russian invasion in the 60s. She has made TV animation films, written TV film scripts, worked as lecturer in art colleges, and is now in private practice as a psychotherapist. Her children's book: 'Carlo the Crocodile', was published by A.C.Black, and her novel 'The Training Patient', and a story included in 'Tales of Psychotherapy', were published by Karnac. With Arachne Press, Anna has stories in 'Stations' and in 'Liberty Tales' before her second novel 'In The Blood'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fodorova, Anna

Leseproben

1

On waking, Agata’s cheek feels cold. She peels herself away from Richard’s back, and before he draws her into his large warm body, she quickly flips the pillow over so that he won’t notice the damp evidence of her tear ducts working overtime. From what uncharted part of her have those tears sprung? Do they actually belong to her or to someone else? Someone from far back, before her memory can reach, someone she doesn’t know. When she scrunches her eyes, Agata can make out the contour of a cheek, the shadow of a smile.

*

The morning traffic crawls along, slower than usual, and Agata hopes that breakfast with Lily will compensate Mama for being left behind. This after Mama kicked her legs in the air can-can fashion to demonstrate that she has already changed from her home-knitted slippers into her outdoor shoes. Because Mama knows no greater pleasure than driving around London on errands with her daughter.

‘But Mama!’ Agata moaned. ‘I’m only going to the dentist, and I’m already late.’

*

Looking for a space in the hospital car park adds another ten minutes. They are already waiting for her. Agata steps out of her jeans, the nurse stretches a fresh length of paper over the bed, straps Agata’s feet in clamps and turns the ceiling light off. In the glare of the computer screen the radiologist adjusts a condom over a plastic instrument, then tips it with a generous dollop of lubricant jelly. ‘Easy does it.’

The instant the icy gadget slips inside her the room fills with an amplified hum. While the radiologist moves his hand this way and that, they are both quiet: he is concentrating on her internal bumps and cavities and Agata, hardly daring to breathe, on mortifying any response her flesh may be conned into by his expert probing.

‘Now this might just look like a blur, but I assure you, anything nasty would look very different.’ The radiologist flicks a smile to the nurse who, whenever Agata shifts, veils her discreetly with a blanket. And every time she performs this little dance, Agata sniffs her sweet coconut scent. ‘Here, see that area I’m highlighting green?’ The radiologist invites the nurse to peep at the screen and Agata, craning her neck, catches what looks like a hazy weather map. ‘That’s the right ovary… ehum! Looks clear. Left ovary… left ovary…?’ The radiologist’s hand shuffles back and forth and Agata grips the side of the bed. What has he seen there? Is it possible that his probe detected Richard’s recent presence inside her?

‘Have you had anything to eat this morning?’

‘A cup of tea, I only drank half.’

‘Left ovary hidden.’

She knew it! Why hadn’t she refused that toast Mama popped in her hand? Now she’ll have to worry if anything ‘nasty’ has invaded her left ovary. Thank God they removed Mama’s in time, her right breast too. Now Agata reaps the benefits of her mother’s misfortunes. Being in a high risk category guarantees her a yearly ovarian scan: every August, to be precise. Richard books the car in the garage every July; so first the car, then the ovaries. Easy to remember, and no need to trouble Mama with either.

While she is pulling her jeans on the radiologist opens a form. ‘Today is…?’ He checks the tag on the nurse’s breast. ‘Baduwa?’

‘Twenty-first August.’

Exactly to this day, twenty years ago, Russian tanks rolled under our Prague balcony, Mama reminded Agata only this morning. Imagine! Military invasion in central Europe! ‘Now we’ll never see our daughter again, she’ll stay in England,’ your father said – no, he sobbed. Soft. That’s what Pavel was, but here – here they are not interested in what happened to us in 1968, here the radio is interested in some actress from some Corporation Street and her stupid breasts!

‘So Mrs Upton, besides your mother, any other relative with breast cancer in the family?’ Agata shrugs. Every time she comes, there is a new radiologist and a new form to fill. ‘No one else on your mother’s side then?’ No idea, she says. ‘On your father’s side?’ The radiologist’s freshly scrubbed hand hovers above the page. To get the whole thing over she informs him that her father is dead. And so, besides her mother, her daughter and husband, she has no other relatives. ‘None?’ None. The radiologist hesitates, then crosses out several boxes.

‘Any death from cancer on your mother’s side… father’s… siblings? Cousins… aunts?’ Agata keeps shrugging and he ploughs on scribbling UNKNOWN. Frowning as if she lost her forbears by her own negligence. This side, that side… How many times will she have to go through this? And how many relatives is one supposed to have? In any case, what business is it of this young man with bitten nails and pimples around his ears, to know how her relatives died?

‘Are you sexually active?’ Now that he is familiar with her innermost parts the radiologist wants to know. She nods and he ticks off the relevant box with almost a sigh of relief, a flourish. Their first definite Yes. He then instructs Baduwa to tighten a rubber band around Agata’s arm.

The blood test signals the end of the procedure.

Straight into the freezer, soon we will be able to tell what’s coming your way, it’s only a question of time, last year’s radiologist said.

Watching her blood slowly climb the glass, thick and dark with bubbles of orange froth, Agata promises herself a cake and a hot chocolate in the cafeteria downstairs. Baduwa corks the vial with a rubber plug, gives it a playful shake and as she passes it to the radiologist she giggles, they must be new to each other. Next: the radiologist’s fingers are grabbing the empty air, the vial hitting the floor and Agata’s blood spilling over the gleaming lino. She watches some dribble down Baduwa’s naked legs, as if it were hers.

*

She skips the cake, heads straight for the car park. Mama’s stomach must be rumbling, it’s almost lunchtime. Less traffic now. Rachmaninov’s concerto, one of the few pieces Agata can identify, is playing on the radio. Each note resonates in her strangely empty interior. She follows a diversion sign and takes a right turn. Now the black arrows on a yellow ground order her to bear left. Now to the right, then left again. Just as well she didn’t tell Mama about the scan; the less she knows the better. Mama probably employs the same tactic with her; they are two spiders knitting a web of, not so much lies as omissions. Holes. As though there was something to tiptoe around. Left, and then right, the arrows guide her. Only there are no secrets, just a habit. A habit of protecting one another. Take that cough Agata heard last night. What if Mama caught a chill at the barbecue, what if…? Must get her a thicker blanket tonight and switch on the heating, Agata reminds herself.

‘Right! It said right!’ Agata yells. ‘The arrow pointed to the right!’ She hears herself protest as a towering wall of red swings in from the left and something slams into the side of the car. Then, as abruptly as it burst into view, the red is gone again and the car is careering forward, Agata hanging onto the wheel, jamming the brakes to slow down the metal gate hurtling towards her, her entrails, as if loosened by the radiologist’s probe, threatening to burst through her back.

When she opens her eyes, the one thing she notices is the radio dangling from the dashboard, still crackling Rachmaninov. Lucky she refused to give the radiologist more blood, she might need every drop of it now.

*

Richard is the first person she runs into at home. He is en route to the studio, in his tatty corduroy waistcoat – the sign he trained them to read as not to be disturbed. She fell in love with Richard because of his colours. Or more accurately – their intriguing absence. When she first saw him in a packed underground train, he was wielding a tube of rolled up papers, a strand of flaxen hair falling over his forehead. Beneath his pale eyelashes his eyes, drops of water at the point of freezing, took her in. They both got off at Charing Cross and, without much being said, headed for St. James’s Park where, in the tangle of the bushes, Richard let go of his designs. At the time, Agata’s erotic experience was limited to a few groping raids in the school cloakroom, and the totality of her English to just a few words, but at the grand age of eighteen she couldn’t wait to get rid of what had become an encumbrance; and that it should be with a stranger whom she was never likely to meet again seemed a bonus. What she didn’t expect in that prickly patch of metropolitan nature was to feel rapturously, breathlessly happy. Richard’s hair smelled of windswept northern steppes, of low skies, of a tribe reassuringly disparate to hers. Yet it was her genes that got the upper hand when a few years down the line a tiny creature with enormous black eyes and a brush of dark hair popped out of her: Lily, their daughter. Lilian, Lily, Lilinka.

‘Sorry I’m late. Please don’t get alarmed,’ she warns him before he notices her rumpled state. ‘I was driving, and they played Rachmaninov.’ She takes care to impart her information in manageable doses. ‘Concerto No. 2, I think.’

‘Rachmaninov is kitsch,’ Richard says, tenderly fingering a microchip he is on his way to install in his computer motherboard. ‘Ask Dora.’

‘Rachmaninov was on the car radio,’ she clarifies. ‘But the car was involved in a little accident.’ Richard freezes in mid-step. ‘Don’t worry, I’m ok,’ she quickly assures him, but he has already leapt to the front door, thrown it open and cast his gaze up and down the...