Mr Romanov's Garden in the Sky Page 8

  ‘Maybe you’re right, Miranda, maybe some things will never change. And maybe Surfers Paradise is a dream like you said but it’s my dream. And I can share it with whoever I like.’

  ‘So what about me, then? I’m going with you, of course.’

  ‘No chance. You’re staying on the wall where you belong.’

  ‘You need me, Lexie.’

  ‘No, Miranda, I don’t.’

  ‘You do, Lexie. You need me more than ever. Just stop for a moment and think. This is a bad idea.’

  I don’t know why I stopped but I did.

  ‘You know, you’re probably right, Miranda. It probably is a bad idea and there’s a lot that could go wrong but I’m going anyway.’

  ‘Lexie. Don’t.’

  ‘Goodbye, Miranda. I’ll send you a postcard.’

  After the bright lights in the elevator, it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the milky light outside. As I walked across the concourse with my gear I saw two blurry figures standing beside the playground with bags by their feet. The sound of Davey’s rattling voice made me smile.

  ‘So there’s this new invention called a computer, right? And Google is a search engine you can use to find out pretty much anything you want. You with me?’

  Mr Romanov wasn’t with him. When I pulled up beside them, he seemed more than a little relieved.

  ‘Ah, cowgirl,’ he said. ‘Thank goodness you are here.’

  Thinking my arrival had saved him, Mr Romanov went to pick up his bag but Davey wasn’t done.

  ‘Hang on. I haven’t finished. Lexie, you need to hear this too.’

  ‘So, as the designated navigator,’ continued Davey, ‘I went onto Google and printed off a map, from the commission all the way to Surfers Paradise.’

  Davey raised his hands up and angled the papers towards a blinking security light above us.

  ‘As you can see, I’ve worked out an itinerary and I’ve marked our stops with different coloured crosses. A red cross for an overnight stay, a blue cross for breakfast and green for lunch.’

  Despite the look of confusion on his face, Mr Romanov seemed to be taking some of it in.

  ‘I am impressed,’ he said. ‘But I think you’ve forgotten dinner.’

  ‘Aha, a very good point,’ countered Davey. ‘And it would seem that way, you’re right. But I’m thinking dinner will coincide with the red cross of an overnight stay.’

  I went to say something but Davey swept the papers behind his back and looked at Mr Romanov on his right.

  ‘And a red cross tells you what?’ he said.

  Mr Romanov looked back blankly.

  ‘I just told you what a red cross was,’ said Davey. ‘I told you like two seconds ago.’

  ‘It’s an overnight stay,’ I said.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you, Lexie. I was asking Mr Romanov. And I was asking him because he’s the driver and the driver needs to know the stops.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell us the stops?’ I asked.

  Davey shook his head in frustration.

  ‘See, I knew this would happen. And that’s why I’ve printed off three copies. Here . . .’

  After licking a finger, Davey sorted through the papers and handed us our itineraries.

  ‘As you can see, I’ve included a legend at the bottom so it’s totally user-friendly but I suggest the two of you . . .’

  We didn’t see Gordo and Nate until it was too late. We didn’t even hear them. They sprang from the shadows in their dark-coloured hoodies and left us with nowhere to go.

  ‘Well, well, well, the people you meet in the dark.’

  Gordo walked over with Nate following closely behind.

  ‘Goin’ somewhere, are ya?’ asked Gordo.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ replied Davey.

  Gordo screwed his face and did his best crazy eyes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, freak . . . maybe the bags?’

  ‘We’re going on a daytrip,’ I said. ‘To the snow.’

  ‘The snow? What, the old boy’s a snowboarder, is he?’

  Gordo laughed at his joke then shuffled over and stood in front of Mr Romanov.

  ‘You a snowboarder, Creeper?’

  Mr Romanov dipped his head and looked at the ground.

  ‘No? I didn’t think so,’ said Gordo. ‘You’re a perv, that’s what you are. A filthy Goddamn perv.’

  The sudden change in Gordo didn’t make sense. He back-pedalled a step and raised two hands in the air.

  ‘Apologies, Creeper,’ he said. ‘No, really, that was out of line. I don’t know what I was thinking. What was I thinking, Nate?’

  ‘I don’t know, Gordo,’ said Nate.

  ‘Me neither,’ continued Gordo. ‘I’m forgetting me manners. I mean, here I am going off like nobody’s business and I haven’t even offered me . . .’

  Gordo snuck a look at Nate beside him.

  ‘What’s that word again, Nate, the one people use at funerals and stuff.’

  ‘You mean, condolences?’ said Nate.

  ‘Yeah, me condolences. I haven’t even offered me condolences for yer dog. What was his name again?’

  ‘Boris,’ said Mr Romanov softly.

  ‘Yeah, Boris, that’s it.’

  Gordo seemed to be enjoying things. He stepped slowly forward, then leaned in and put his mouth up close to Mr Romanov’s ear.

  ‘Bloody thing bit me, you know. Just before I chucked him off, the little shit sunk his teeth into my hand.’

  It happened in an instant. I didn’t even see Mr Romanov move. All I saw was the gun, pointed at Gordo’s head. I screamed and reeled back a few steps. Davey came with me and the two of us stood there watching. I raised a hand up to cover my mouth and made whimpering noises through my fingers. Davey looked behind us then managed to find his voice.

  ‘It’s not a good idea, Mr Romanov . . . You need to calm down. You need to put that away.’

  I found my own voice then.

  ‘Davey’s right, Mr Romanov. He’s not worth it. Please, put the gun away.’

  Mr Romanov raised his free hand in the air and showed me his palm.

  ‘Please, cowgirl, do not interrupt.’

  He lowered his hand and stepped a little closer to Gordo.

  ‘You do not speak,’ said Mr Romanov. ‘You only speak when I say. Yes?’

  All of a sudden Gordo didn’t seem so tough.

  ‘There will be no more,’ said Mr Romanov. ‘You understand?’

  Gordo wasn’t following.

  ‘Sorry, no more what?’

  ‘The drugs you sell,’ said Mr Romanov. ‘There will be no more.’

  ‘What drugs?’

  The tip of the gun moved closer to Gordo’s head.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Gordo. ‘No more.’

  ‘And the money you collect. No more. Say it.’

  ‘No more,’ said Gordo.

  In the silence that followed, Mr Romanov turned his head and gazed out across the concourse to the patch of concrete where Boris had died.

  ‘No more,’ he said.

  Mr Romanov drifted off then. His eyes seemed to lose their focus for a bit and when he came back, he looked at the gun in his hand as if he wasn’t sure why it was there.

  ‘You will stop,’ he said. ‘And if I find out there is more, I will ring the Russians.’

  Gordo angled his head and tried to find Mr Romanov’s face.

  ‘What Russians?’ he asked.

  ‘The Russians in East St Kilda,’ said Mr Romanov. ‘Now, you will give me the bag.’

  I hadn’t noticed the little bumbag around Gordo’s waist. When Gordo began to protest, Mr Romanov tightened his grip around the handle of the gun and pushed it closer.

  ‘The bag,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  Reaching down to his waist, Gordo unclipped the bag. He handed it to Mr Romanov who tucked it into his coat pocket and smiled.

  ‘For the snow,’ he said. ‘And now . . . you may go.’
<
br />   I had trouble talking after that. Although Gordo was no angel himself, seeing a gun, an actual gun pointed at his head had left me in a state of shock. I was trembling. Davey, on the other hand, was buzzing. As we trailed after Mr Romanov he wouldn’t shut up.

  ‘That was mad,’ he said. ‘That was seriously mad. When you pulled that gun I swear to God, it was like something out of a movie. Where the hell did you get it anyway? I didn’t know you owned a gun? I didn’t know you were allowed?’

  After everything that had happened, Mr Romanov seemed strangely calm.

  ‘You want to see?’ he said.

  I spun around, furious.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t want to see.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ said Davey.

  ‘No, Davey, you don’t. And you shouldn’t have asked, Mr Romanov. We’re talking about a gun. Seriously, what’s wrong with you two?’

  It wasn’t like Mr Romanov. Despite my disapproval, he offered Davey the gun. Davey took it and began to turn it over in his hand as if he was testing its weight.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘This gun . . . it’s plastic.’

  Mr Romanov turned to me and smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A toy.’

  ‘But it looks so real,’ said Davey. ‘It’s a Glock, if I’m not mistaken, semi-automatic. Most people think they’re Russian but they were actually made in . . .’

  ‘Stop, Davey.’

  I walked over and snatched the gun from his hand.

  ‘What do you mean, stop?’

  ‘I mean stop talking, Davey. Do not say another word. I nearly had a heart attack back there. I don’t want to hear about the bloody Glock. And I don’t want to hear about the red crosses and overnight stays. It’s six o’clock in the morning.’

  I picked up my suitcase and turned to Mr Romanov and threw him a look.

  ‘So where’s this Mercedes?’ I asked.

  Mr Romanov raised an arm up and pointed.

  ‘That way,’ he said. ‘Gertrude Street. There is a laneway beside the hotel.’

  ‘Okay then, let’s go.’

  As I approached the grass area near the store, Davey began to whisper to Mr Romanov beside him. I’m not sure how far behind me they were, but the dawn’s half-light seemed to carry his voice and I caught the words as they floated through the air.

  ‘I think we’ve established she’s not a morning person,’ he said. ‘Might be something to keep in mind.’

  I turned my head and threw him a look.

  ‘I heard that, Davey.’

  I’d never ventured out this early before. While most people were still tucked in their beds, it seemed that others had already made a start to their day. Gertrude Street was a scramble. Early commuters, out to beat the peak-hour jam, swung wide in their cars around a whooshing street sweeper and a stop-start garbage truck further up the road. Lycra-clad bike riders pedalled in packs, joggers trundled along the footpath, dodging dog walkers and a group of arm-swinging mums.

  Soon enough, the others caught up to me and after a ten-minute walk we turned down a bluestone alleyway and stopped in front of a silver roller door, tagged with graffiti. As we stood there waiting, Mr Romanov searched his coat pocket and pulled out a cluster of keys. He had trouble finding the keyhole in the milky light so Davey helped him out. After some fumbling with the lock, the three of us bent down and lifted up the door. It was a relief to see the car inside. Despite Mr Romanov’s assurance, the idea he actually owned a car seemed kind of ridiculous. But there it was in the garage, hidden beneath a large khaki cover. Luckily it took only a few seconds to remove it. After undoing the ties at either end, Mr Romanov grabbed a handful of nylon near the bonnet and gave it a yank. When the cover slid off, he took a step back and smiled.

  ‘There he is.’

  Davey was shattered. He glanced at Mr Romanov then looked back at the faded red car.

  ‘Are you kidding me? When you said Merc, I thought you meant . . . No offence or anything but this thing must be older than you.’

  Mr Romanov looked a little hurt.

  ‘Well, I like it,’ I said. ‘It’s got character.’

  ‘That’s not character, Lexie, it’s rust. And look at the tyres, it’s not even roadworthy.’

  We didn’t have much choice about our mode of transport so after digging out a few things from our bags, we dumped them onto the seats and climbed inside.

  ‘It’s spacious,’ I said, turning to Davey in the back. ‘And the tan leather interior is nice.’

  As I ran a hand across the bench seat in the front, Mr Romanov drove a key into the ignition and after giving it a half-turn, the engine spluttered and coughed. I began to panic after the third attempt, but when I looked at Mr Romanov beside me he didn’t seem in the least bit concerned.

  ‘Is all right, cowgirl. Every two weeks, I start. Never fear.’

  And sure enough he was right. On the fourth turn, Mr Romanov drove his foot down onto the accelerator and the engine kicked then roared into life. A startled possum darted out from underneath the car and scratched its way up some wooden shelving .

  ‘It’s not too late to get a bus,’ said Davey.

  After locking the roller door behind us, Mr Romanov jumped back into the driver’s seat. He buckled up then steered the Merc up the alleyway and edged its nose out onto Gertrude Street. He waited for a break in the traffic, looked left and right, then launched the car onto the middle of the road. Davey braced himself and pushed his shoes against the back of my seat.

  ‘Left side,’ he shouted. ‘We drive on the left here.’

  Realising his mistake, Mr Romanov corrected his line and after turning at the set of traffic lights a little way down the road, we veered into Hoddle Street and headed north. Despite the condition of the car, the ride in the Merc was surprisingly smooth.

  ‘So how long since you’ve driven a car?’ asked Davey.

  Mr Romanov snuck a quick look at the rear-vision mirror between us.

  ‘A long time,’ he said.

  ‘Like how long?’ said Davey, ‘Three years, five?’

  ‘Twenty. Maybe more.’

  ‘Twenty years, are you joking? Is the car even registered?’

  Mr Romanov shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Oh great,’ said Davey. ‘What about a licence, then? Have you even got a licence?’

  ‘I need a licence?’

  ‘Of course you need a licence. This isn’t Moscow, you know.’

  Davey was surprisingly good with his directions. He spoke clearly and gave plenty of warning when to turn and soon enough the bustle of Fitzroy was behind us. The cars began to thin the further north we went and despite his twenty-year spell, Mr Romanov looked as if he’d been driving for years.

  ‘Can you believe this?’ I said. ‘We’re going to Surfers Paradise. We’re actually going.’

  I’d imagined this moment for years. It was the last thing I thought about each night before I went to sleep, but now that it was here it still didn’t seem real. We hadn’t even gone that far and yet the world seemed bigger, brighter somehow, and I wondered if my father had felt the same when he packed his bags and drove off in his car.

  ‘Hello . . . Earth to Lexie. Come in, Lexie.’

  Davey’s voice brought me back, and when I turned my head, my father disappeared.

  ‘What about our lucky things?’ he said.

  I’d forgotten about our lucky things. I don’t know why I’d thought of it but that afternoon on the rooftop I’d made the others promise to bring something special along, something that might bring us luck on our long journey north. I rummaged through the plastic bag on the seat beside me and pulled out the snow dome Ramesh had given me. After placing it up onto the dashboard, Mr Romanov dug a hand into his pocket and handed me Boris’s green collar.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is.’

  The collar deserved to have pride of place somewhere we could all see it, so I unclipped the plastic buckle
and looped it around the rear-vision mirror. I smiled at Mr Romanov beside me then turned to Davey in the back.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m getting them.’

  ‘Them?’

  Davey seemed to be having trouble finding his lucky things, so he unzipped his small backpack and dumped its contents onto the seat beside him. Among the pile of things I spotted some brochures. Davey saw me looking and quickly gathered them up and shoved them back into his bag.

  ‘There they are,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got two?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Davey. ‘I couldn’t decide, so I brought them both.’

  Davey grabbed the two small figures from the seat and held them up, one in each hand.

  ‘This is Delilah, the hula girl,’ he said. ‘You probably don’t know this but my dad was a truck driver. He used to take Delilah on long hauls. He said she reminded him of Mum. In her younger years, of course. Before she put on weight.’

  ‘And the other one?’ I asked.

  Davey looked at me in disbelief.

  ‘You don’t know who this is?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I can’t say I do. Should I?’

  ‘Yes, Lexie, you should. See, that’s why you and me could never go out.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You and me. I could never be serious about someone who doesn’t know who Worf is.’

  ‘And who exactly is Worf anyway? God, he’s an ugly looking thing.’

  ‘Star Trek, Lexie. Worf is the son of Mogh. He’s also the only Klingon to serve in Starfleet.’

  ‘Of course he is. And that right there is why I could never be serious about you, Davey.’

  After switching Worf to his right hand, Davey reached out and handed me the plastic figures over the front seat.

  ‘There’s blu-tack under their feet,’ he said. ‘So you can stick them on the dash.’

  I liked Delilah already. She was dressed in a grass skirt and a bikini top and had juicy red lips.

  After sticking her next to the snow dome, I tapped her with my finger and she began to gyrate from side to side.

  ‘She’s awesome,’ I said.

  ‘Now Worf,’ said Davey.