BUFF ENVELOPES

By Janet Baldey

Not another one!   Her legs turning to water, Rifat bent to pick up the envelope.  As if it was red hot, she dropped into onto the table and stood staring at it.  At last, she wiped her damp hands down her skirt, reached out and, with the very tip of her finger, turned it so the address faced her. 

TO THE PRESENT OCCUPIER

The bold black type accused and fine lines tracked over her normally smooth brow.  She didn’t understand. Should she open these envelopes that kept drifting through her letterbox like unwelcome snowflakes or were they meant for Mr Askari?   True, she’d been living in the flat for months but, without papers, it was a ghostlike existence.  It was Mr Askari who paid the rent and it was his property that furnished the place.  She sat on his stained sofa, walked over his threadbare carpet and slept in his sagging bed.  Shuddering, she looked around the dingy beige living room with its bare walls and limp curtains.  Even her poverty stricken home in Slovenia was a palace compared to this.  Her eyes welled as she remembered its bright cushions and wall hangings lovingly stitched by her family.  Her tears overflowed and slid down her cheeks as she thought of her Mother and little Magda.   It was months since she had managed to send them any money.  Almost all she earned was taken by the cold eyed thug who appeared at her door every Friday evening.  As squat and ugly as a peasant’s privy, he never smiled and never spoke but simply held out his hand.   She hadn’t seen Mr Askari for months and sometimes wondered why, but she would never dare ask this man.

         With an apathetic shrug, she dropped the envelope onto the pile of similar ones.  She would try to pretend they weren’t worth worrying about. It was just that everything in this cold, dark country was so strange.  Days would pass before the sun made a token appearance, whereas in Slovenia it smiled most of the time.  Its meadows were lush and fragrant with the scent of bell flowers, orchids and the pale lemon butterwort and its countryside sprawled extravagantly, not like this tightlipped city whose regimented parks seem to have been cut out and pasted onto sour overused earth.   She clutched at her hair in despair.  If only she hadn’t listened to those glib men with predatory eyes and shark-like smiles.

        ‘It is good in England. There you will earn much money.  You will have a house, a washing machine, a car even. And very soon you will be reunited with your daughter.  Be brave Rifat.’

         She closed her fists and ground her nails into her hands as she cursed those men.  She cursed their ancestors, she cursed their progeny but most of all, she cursed their souls. Her body shuddered with venom until she felt limp and exhausted and stood with her head bowed.   After a while she roused herself and looked at the plastic kitchen clock with the crack across its dial.  It was time to go.  She slipped on her shoes with the punishing heels and re-applied her make-up.  As she stepped outside, she saw her neighbor leaving his flat.   She froze. He was a spy, she was certain of it. She had often caught him staring at her.  He had a thin, triangular, feral face and she didn’t trust him one bit.  She lowered her head and wished for a hibab to cover her face.

        So swiftly she was caught unawares, another figure materialized before she had chance to close the door. His appearance was forbidding and she started to tremble.  The man looked at the half open door and then at her.

        ‘Am I speaking to the present occupier?’, he barked and waved a buff coloured envelope, which she recognized at once.  She felt her mouth drop open.  She stared at him and saw his eyes were the washed-out blue of Arctic ice, his lips were thin and somehow she knew that, if kissed, they would taste of vinegar.

         Panicked and against her will, she flashed a desperate glance at her neighbour who stepped forward immediately.

         ‘No.  She’s just the cleaner….she speaks very little English.   I believe this flat belongs to Enzo Askari.’

        The man scowled and looked at Rifat as if she had soiled his shoes. ‘So, where is this Mr Askari, we have been trying to contact him for months.’

         Her saviour hesitated, ‘He is away.’  He stepped forward and whispered something in the man’s ear.  Rifat saw the man’s scowl deepen.  

         ‘We will check this, of course. In the meantime, if you see Mr Askari, please ask him to complete the form in the envelope and return it immediately.’

       They both watched as he spun round and stalked towards the stairs. 

        Rifat took another look at her neighbour.  She suddenly realized he didn’t look sly at all.   Instead, he looked wise and kind and his eyes shone like burnished copper, reminding her of the foxes she used to watch in the woods around her village.

       ‘Thank you so much’, she whispered.

        He half bowed.  ‘I am glad to help.   What is your name?  I am called Sergei.’  

        ‘My name is  Rifat.’

      ‘It is nice to meet you Rifat.  But now, I must warn you.   Never, but never, ignore buff coloured envelopes. They are from bureaucrats and must be answered. If they don’t get a reply they send their dogs out.’

        ‘Was that man a dog?’

        His lip curled.   ‘Of the very worst kind – even the lowliest cur would be ashamed to associate with his sort.   But, remember – fill in their forms – put anything you like, it doesn’t matter.  As long as you tick their boxes they are happy.  If you don’t, you will betray yourself.’

      She nodded, then started as she remembered. 

      ‘I must go now.’

      ‘Goodbye Rifat.   I hope we will see each other again soon.’

      Neither of them spoke but in that long moment of silence, Rifat could have sworn she heard both of their hearts beating as one.

Copyright Janet Baldey