Conversations With a Man in My Fridge

Reference to Torture and Imprisonment

Slowly, I edged the fridge door open. I peeked through the gap to see if there was a man in my fridge. As suspected, there was.

My father bought the apartment in Paris before he was exiled. It is spacious and beautiful and looks down on a courtyard with a pond that catches the afternoon sun. The kitchen is appointed with German appliances and Italian marble, and next to it is a utility room where the concierge drops off parcels without entering the apartment. And the fridge has a door at the back so they can stock it from the service corridor with my usual order: caviar, seafood, champagne, goat’s milk. But if they thought of everything, did they foresee the conversations with the man in my fridge.

It was 2.00 AM I think but can’t be sure as I lost my Rolex. I woke up cold and decided to look in the fridge to satisfy my endless hunger. There was Rodrigo, staring at me, his huge hands inside the fridge and his face behind the metal bars.

‘What are you doing?’ I screamed.

‘What I always do, check up on things.’

‘I was startled. I didn’t expect to see a man in my fridge.’

‘No one expects me, and I have eighteen others to check.’

‘Of course, it’s not your fault; it’s just that I take security seriously, as does my father. That’s why I live here and don’t go out much.’

‘What do you do all day?’

I know he was on duty, but his curiosity seemed too personal. Perhaps he just needed company, and while I do also, I would not place this sexless bull’s head on a short list of contenders. But it was only fair to entertain the man in my fridge with some of my privileges.

‘I dance,’ I told him. ‘The floor is perfect for dancing. I was trained at the Vaganova in St Petersburg.  I play piano - we have a Steinway, from Hamburg of course - Rachmaninov, sometimes Scriabin. You can only understand Scriabin if you are Russian. He reflects our soul, the light and shadow, anger, sometimes chaos. Sometimes I paint. My paintings are like photographs of my thoughts, my ‘psyche’ I think they say in French.’

‘My French is not good.  Do you think you will ever go outside, to see your father?’ he asked, staring at me with his wide, watery eyes.

‘Yes of course, but not while those in power don’t appreciate the good things my father has done for Russia. That’s why he wants me to stay here. It’s safer than being at home and I like the climate, especially in the courtyard: the gravel, the flowers, and those beautiful Italian cypresses remind me of Tuscany. Have you been to Italy?’

‘No, I am stuck here, though I feel safe in the street, unlike you. We are opposites, which is why you open the door from your side, and I bring you food from my side.’

I felt sorry for Rodrigo, reluctantly. His life was hard while I just skated through mine day after day.

I slept fitfully that night. The dream returned of a silhouette approaching the bottom of my bed while I was trapped in the paralysis if sleep. I rocked and wrenched my body until I woke up cold in the smallest of the bedrooms. Darkness drags me down, sometimes it seems the nights will never end, perhaps they never do, and I just think they do.  I put my head under the covers, fresh Egyptian cotton, and tried to sleep again but I was too cold and I heard noises. I got up, hungry, and approached the fridge. In silence, I opened the door.

‘You are still there,’ I said.

‘As always. Do you want breakfast? What about eggs, the finest in…. Paris.’

I sometimes dream of fresh eggs from my grandmother’s farm, yellow and still warm, then poached to perfection. I sat back and looked round my apartment, its marble floors, polished plaster walls and the giant copper hearth next to my piano.  The sun boiled up over the lead roofs and shone through the terrace doors but failed to heat my bones, so I went into the courtyard. The scent of the dwarf pine was electric; the lavender releasing its oily vapours. The trickle of the fountain raised the background noise to block out the traffic, the planes, and the voices that were always there like a murmuring choir. I dosed in the afternoon sun then decided to exercise; I practiced in front of the mirror, remembering my ballet training. Then I went back to my apartment to shower and have some iced tea. When I opened the fridge, there he was.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. Shaken and angry, I began to wonder if he had been waiting for me, his bulbous face, his hands seemingly closer than before. Did he want to touch me?

‘Don’t you have anyone else to look after?’

‘Yes, but I was told to pay particular attention to you.’

‘Has my father put you up to this? ‘Keep an eye on Elena!’ Well, I am fine. Why this morning I walked to the park then caught an exhibition. It was so nice to see my old friends. I will go shopping tomorrow!’

‘Yes, of course you will. It is better than being confined by these four walls.’ Rodrigo’s hands lay on the fridge shelf. I could see he had added nothing to the contents.

‘But they are beautiful walls and so spacious,’ I said.

‘I can’t see from here,’ he said, staring at me intently.

‘Are you going to come in?’

‘I’m fine here. Speaking of your father, do you know where he is?’ Odd, I thought, as they must have his details.

‘He is in Moscow, of course.’

‘Here is your milk. I’ll bring food later. What is it you like?’

‘Fish, like my father used to bring home from Pyatnitskaya Market. He made such a fuss of cooking it. The best in the world, he said, and he should know as he travels widely. I do miss him, but he will come and see me soon when he gets back from Moscow.’ But I worry, with some inevitable dread in my gut that he won’t come back? What if I am stuck here? ‘Have you met my father? A great man. He has so many dreams for Russia.’

‘Of course, but where is he, London?’

‘I miss him. Perhaps I should go to see him and not wait for him to come here.’

Rodrigo laughed. ‘And how would you see him? Just walk right out of here?’

His laughter trailed off slowly, vibrating his bared teeth with huge black gaps, and breathing in my fridge.

‘Rodrigo, please remember to whom you are speaking!’

He laughed again.

‘I know ‘to whom’ I am talking. Now go and play your piano. Ha ha.’

I slammed the door in his face and pulled a chair to wedge the handle so that his filthy hands couldn’t push it open.  Who does he think he is, talking to me like that? I’ll tell the head concierge. I pulled on my camel coat and my new, Italian leather boots, and stomped to the front door. It was locked. How could I be trapped in my own apartment? I banged the door with a lamp, hammering until paint chips flew off.

‘Shut up in there’, said Rodrigo, raging.

‘I want to see the concierge. I want out and I want to go to Paris, now!’

‘Of course you do. And when your time is up you will but knowing traitors like you, you will be in this place ‘til you die, slowly. Or until your father comes back and pays his dues. We got your mother. We’ve got you. He’s next.’ He had obviously gone mad.

Of course! I could get out through the fridge. I crawled onto the shelf to prize open the panel, but he had locked it from the outside. Taking my head out of the fridge, I found myself in my small bedroom. It seemed different. The bricks were grinning through the plaster, bars had been placed on the window next to one of my old ballet shoes and a glass with the remains of soured milk. I looked out the window to see the evening sun on the bougainvillea but somehow the garden had been stripped to a worn and weedy yard, damp from dripping pipes, breathing putrid air into my room. Beyond, I could make out the skyline of Orenburg and just the head of Gagarin’s statue*. The colours faded with the light, and with it all sense. Where was Montmatre? The Eiffel Tower? The birdsong and fountain had been replaced with the cries of beatings.

I turned my eyes away from the desecration and saw that my beloved piano had also gone. Where was my kitchen, my terrace, where will I dance? But there was just this cell, the one I have seen for eight inconsolable years while I wait for my father to return.  My canvasses were just scribbles on the wall, my library four censured books, my closet an empty hook. All I had was a damp iron bed with a stained, living mattress which leaves me cold in the endless dark.

That night I dreamed of Paris, waiting for the man to approach the bottom of my bed while I am unable to wake from the nightly drugs. I pray to the God that deserted me that it is not the jailor who used to beat me with rubber pipes, who ripped out my beautiful hair, who snapped my piano fingers with his course hands: The Man in My Fridge, who took my watch and stole my life.

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*Yuri Gagarin (Russian) – first human to travel in space. A statue dedicated to him stands in Orenburg, the city with Russia’s worst corrective institute.