Red Under the Bed

‘Oh, look what we’ve got here!’

‘A Russian church,’ I said in astonishment, looking at the golden domes shining against the blue sky.

‘Do you think we landed in the right country last night?’

‘That would be funny if we didn’t.’

‘Twenty-four hours in the air, two flights, 15,000 km away from Russia, only to find a Russian church first thing in the morning. Surprise!’ Liu summarised, staring at the church with wonder.

‘I think it’s a good sign. Like we’re being welcomed into a new home,’ I said.

The unfamiliar birds, the irregularly shaped pale-green trees, and the unusual morning heat reassured me that we were definitely not in Russia. There were no concrete apartment blocks towering over one another, no noisy, congested roads. Instead, fresh air drifted through quiet streets, where squat little houses stretched across the hills in every direction, creating an atmosphere of peaceful, unrushed life.

We came closer and read the sign: Pokrov Melbourne. Russian Orthodox Cathedral. The entrance door stood slightly ajar, inviting us inside. We awkwardly crossed ourselves and stepped in. Candlelight, the smell of frankincense, and the large icons on the walls perfectly resembled the Russian Orthodox churches we knew back home. We bought candles, chatted in Russian to the woman selling them, and then searched for an icon of Nicholas the Wonderworker — the patron saint of sailors and travellers.

After lighting our candles, we stood in thoughtful silence for a while before leaving the church feeling light and joyful.

By the time we returned, our B&B host, JP, was awake.

‘My Russkies!’ we heard her call loudly.

Over breakfast, we learned quite a few things from JP — some local slang, a few tips about Melbourne, and the fact that her father had been a great admirer of Soviet Russia.

‘Red under the bed — have you heard that expression?’ she asked.

We shook our heads.

‘Funny you’re here. I wish my dad could see you sitting next to me. He wouldn’t believe it!’

After breakfast, we helped JP clear the table.

‘Listen,’ she said suddenly, lowering her voice, ‘I wanted to ask you something — and I don’t mean to be rude — are you friends or...?’

The question hung awkwardly in the air.

‘Um...’ I looked at Liu. Hesitation flickered across her face, but only for a moment.

‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘We’re partners. We got married in New Zealand two years ago.’

‘I knew it!’ JP burst out excitedly. ‘I knew it the moment I saw your picture on the B&B page. Go girrrrrls! All the most gorgeous girls are lesbos.’

I forced a polite smile, feeling painfully awkward as the conversation veered somewhere unexpected.

JP was in her sixties — short-haired, dressed in a colourful oversized T-shirt and pants, with one pierced ear. Her walls were covered with photos from her adventurous youth, and many featured women too.

‘And you?’ Liu asked suddenly.

‘Of course I am! Always have been,’ JP replied, before disappearing into the bathroom, whistling cheerfully.

‘Shocking,’ Liu muttered once she was gone.

That afternoon, following JP’s advice, we headed to St Kilda. Bright afternoon sunlight flooded the bay, and we could hardly wait to see the ocean.

The wide esplanade buzzed with life. People walked, swam, cycled — old and young, dressed in every imaginable fashion, speaking different languages. Somehow, they all seemed to blend effortlessly together, united by the joy of a warm sunny day.

Breathing in the salty air, we wandered along the waterfront. Above us stretched an endless blue sky. Far from shore, kite surfers skimmed across the sparkling water. The sandy beach was crowded with towels and tents. Nearby, seagulls screeched as they fought over chips dropped by children.

‘Look,’ Liu suddenly hissed, raising an eyebrow and nodding ahead.

‘What? Where?’

Then I saw them. About fifty metres away, two young women were strolling hand in hand, glancing softly at one another.

I stared. Liu stared too.

We kept walking in silence until I felt her hand gently brush against mine. My heart lurched painfully. Then I squeezed her hand back.

We returned to JP’s place that evening. Her excited voice greeted us from the lounge room.

She wasn’t alone.

‘Let me introduce you to Zha-Zha!’ she announced.

A pretty young Chinese woman looked at us curiously.

‘Maria,’ I said.

‘Liu,’ said Liu.

We sat opposite her on the couch and began chatting — awkwardly at first, then more and more easily — about our day, our first impressions of Australia, and where we had come from.

‘We should have wine on the deck,’ JP declared. ‘It’s a beautiful night. We can gaze at the Russkies’ church, and if you’re lucky, you might even spot possums.’

The deck was a huge upstairs veranda overlooking the glowing golden domes of the church.

After a few glasses of wine, JP suddenly announced, ‘You know, I’m actually very good at Chinese opera singing.’

All three of us stared at her. She was Australian, British origins, we knew that. We waited.

‘Ang-yang-ching-chung-tinna-tan-chuuuu’ she sang on a high pitch with a perfectly serious expression on her face.

We collapsed into laughter.

‘JP!’

But she sounded oddly convincing and was clearly enjoying herself immensely. Zha-Zha laughed hardest of all.

‘You really should sing Chinese opera, JP. You have talent!’

Then JP asked whether Zha-Zha could sing too. To our surprise, she smiled shyly and said, ‘I’ll sing something my parents used to sing to me.’

The moment the first notes rang out, my jaw dropped. I looked at Zha-Zha, then at Liu. Liu stared back at me wide-eyed.

The lyrics were in Chinese, but the melody was unmistakable. Suddenly, memories of my early school years in Russia flooded back. It was Katyusha — the patriotic song every Russian child knew by heart and sang on Victory Day.

Without exchanging a word, Liu and I quietly joined in:

“Расцветали яблони и груши...”

‘My parents were communists,’ Zha-Zha explained when the song ended. ‘They studied Russian language and history at school.’

‘Unbelievable,’ JP whispered, blinking rapidly as she looked from us to Zha-Zha and back again.

Unable to resist, I started another song. To my surprise, Zha-Zha knew that one too.

Then I found a lively Russian tune on my phone. Perhaps it was the wine, or the golden domes glowing in the distance, or simply the joy radiating from everyone’s faces, but suddenly I jumped to my feet and started dancing.

JP, Liu, and Zha-Zha followed instantly. We spun across the deck laughing, leaping, bowing dramatically to one another, even attempting clumsy Cossack squats.

The air itself seemed filled with freedom, and new open roads lay before us. A new chapter of our lives had begun.