The Fighter by Arnold Zable

Author:Arnold Zable
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2016-03-11T05:00:00+00:00

17

The lullaby unlocks another Sonia. She is retrieving a chocolate sponge from the oven. The buckled linoleum crackles beneath her feet. She has baked the cake for one of her children’s birthdays. She has squirrelled away the money over weeks to give as a present.

The memory will lie dormant, obscured by the darkness. Only years later will it make its way to the surface. It is Paul who recalls it first, and then Sandra who remembers the aroma, and the sight of Sonia mixing the batter, her fingers dusty with flour and cocoa.

The table is scattered with eggshells, a jar of sugar, whisks, a bowl of sultanas. Sonia is opening the door of the oven. This is no faded black-and-white memory. There is colour in the picture. She takes out the two halves of the cake and places them on the table. The sponges are warm and the surfaces nicely rounded. She allows them to cool. Then she places one on top of the other, with an ample layer of chocolate-cream between them.

She has not skimped on the sultanas, but she has forgotten to dust them with flour and they have sunk to the bottom. Never mind, this aberration has its advantages. It’s Sandra’s favourite part of the cake; she cuts the slices in half, and eats the bottom portions.

There were times, in between periods of illness, when Sonia walked Sandra to school, and she was there by the school gate to pick her up six hours later. ‘How fortunate I was to have a mother waiting for me,’ Sandra says.

Mother and daughter are making their way home, side by side, falling into step, in harness to each other’s rhythm. Sandra is elated. They stop at the bakery and Sonia buys cream buns, a treat for her daughter. They continue homeward. Sandra greets friends with pride, and smiles at neighbours. Look, her demeanour says, I have a mother too, and she cares for me.

‘In this there was love,’ Sandra says. ‘And courage.’

With Sandra’s birth, there are seven people in the family. The house sings with the voices of five children returning from school, from work, and from their daily forays. The outside world enters with them. They are cutting through the living room, trailing the day’s chatter into the kitchen. Their voices overpower the silence.

Sonia is standing at the kitchen table. Her apron is stained burgundy. She is chopping vegetables, sliding them into the pot, and stirring the mixture: chopped carrots, thinly sliced beetroots, potatoes and peppers.

She is immersed in her task. There is purpose in her movements. She adjusts the pot on the stove. The element whooshes to life. The flames are a transparent blue and violet, shot through with yellow. The kitchen is filled with warmth.

The borscht simmers. The lid rattles.

When the soup is done, Sonia brings the pot to the table. She ladles the steaming mixture into white bowls and adds a dollop of cream: burgundy in white, and white upon burgundy.

She stands in the kitchen, spoon in hand, the task completed.

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