Next week was the anniversary of her mother’s death — three years from the day in 1985 when her old life ended. And since then she had created so much new life: new country, new friends, new work. How much longer would she forfeit her life for this old man, this old Soviet who never gave any thought to anyone other than himself?

She sat on the edge of the planter box. Her tomato plants were growing nicely; she loved tomatoes almost as much as passionfruit and bananas. These small pleasures of her new life. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves, and she raised her face to the blue Australian sky. She had let him suck the courage from her, but she must build it again.

And suddenly it burst upon her: Mikhail was in her debt. Mikhail owed her. Mikhail owed her for the deaths of the grandparents she never knew; he owed her for the neglect of her mother, and for all the deprivations that ordinary Soviet citizens like her suffered while he lived his life of caviar and ermine. Mikhail was in her debt. And he was adding to the debt right now; he was taking her shelter and her food, her English language and her Australian know-how.

It was time to make him stop. It was time for him to leave. It was time for her to take her life back.

She considered various strategies, but in the end, with her courage still faltering, she opted for the Soviet way. Mikhail would leave: she would arrange it. She picked up the phone and dialled Alexei’s number. The phone rang and rang. She prayed for him to be home. Finally, he picked up; he was out of breath, he’d run in from the garden. She went straight to the point. She said that Mikhail would like to come and live with Alexei. She said that he was too proud to ask for this himself, but she knew for certain it was what he wanted.

Alexei was delighted at the prospect, as she knew he would be. His house was empty, he was lonely. But he was worried about Galina. ‘You are Misha’s family. You will be lonely now.’ And she said it was because she was family that she could act in Misha’s best interests. She would manage.

‘I want my uncle to be happy,’ she said, with convincing ease.

‘You are a good girl,’ said Alexei.

Together they devised a plan. Most crucially, Misha must never know about this phone call.

‘You are a very good girl,’ Alexei said again. ‘You have made two old men very happy.’

She had been a good Soviet girl, that was what she’d been. She had called in her debts at no cost to herself.

17 UNDER THE AUSTRALIAN SUN

17

UNDER THE AUSTRALIAN SUN