The Lubetkin Legacy

Berthold: Stacey

The night was sweet with human warmth, ample with dimpling flesh, moist with body fluids, and punctuated by trips to the bathroom. I woke late, with a jumble of songs running through my head. Occupying most of the bed, and hogging all of the duvet, Eustachia was snoring lightly. I kissed her on the nose and went in search of coffee.

In the kitchen, Lookerchunky, stark naked, was doing the same. I took a discreet look at his beast, which dangled raw-red and uncircumcised beside the cutlery drawer. It did not seem any bigger than mine.

‘Berthold, old chep, we heff to talk.’

‘Yes, but not now.’ I was desperate for coffee. There were barely two spoonfuls left in the Lidl own-brand jar. I commandeered them both into two cups, one for Eustachia and one for me. He could go hang himself, for all I cared.

‘You mother, Lilya, she very pessionette lady.’

‘Mhm.’ I poured in hot water.

‘We heff make loff all night.’

‘Mhm. I heard you.’

I opened the fridge door. As I bent down, the dull ache in my head became a sharp pain. There wasn’t much milk left, either. Really, it was too bad. Inna was supposed to take care of these things.

‘She want we liff together.’

‘Mhm.’ I stirred the beige liquid. ‘Where? Where do you propose to do that?’

‘She propose me liff wit her in flet. This flet.’

‘Oh no. No no no. You don’t get it, Lookerchunky.’

‘I understend how you feelink, Bertie old chep. But you grown-up men now. You too old for livink wit Mamma.’

‘Look, there’s something you need to know.’ A pulse in my head was beating like a hammer on a dustbin lid. ‘She’s not really my mother.’

‘Not mother? How is possible?’

‘My mother Lily is dead.’

‘God is dead! Ding dong! God is dead!’ No one had remembered to cover Flossie’s cage for the night. She was lounging on her perch with a morbid look in her eye.

Startled by the noise, Eustachia called from the bedroom, ‘Can I do anything?’

‘It’s all right, Stacey. I’m just coming. Do you take sugar?’

Stacey! What a ghastly name! I supposed I would get used to it.

‘I’m sweet enough as I am!’

We sipped our coffee-flavoured water sitting up side by side in bed, the duvet pulled up over our nakedness, her hair loosed from its ponytail and snaking in coppery coils over her splendid breasts. Through the wall, we heard the sounds of a shrill soprano and a mellow baritone yelling at each other. Fortunately, Lubetkin’s walls were thick enough that we couldn’t make out what they were saying.