Эдвард Докс - Pravda ['Self Help' in the UK]

Staring at the book, she allowed herself to access the secret cargo of guilt she had been carrying since Gabriel’s call for help: perhaps… perhaps indirectly she had been the cause. Had she not in some way prompted him to this decision in the pub? Had she been too forthright about leaving Sasha? By showing off about her decisiveness (and that, she knew, was what she had been doing), had she not thrown his indecision into relief, made him feel his inaction as a fault? And now he had gone and done this. Taken a cheap room in a shared house in Chalk Farm on what looked like the rashest impulse of his life.

She opened the book, knowing well that the inscription would be in her mother’s hand.

Dear Gabriel, I hope one day you will read this book and find in it all the life that I do! Life is all there is—it seems obvious enough, but you will be amazed at how many people forget. And for Tolstoy, as for his Pierre Bezukhov, the only duty is to life itself: “Life is everything. Life is God.” Even in the fever of our wars and the squandering of our peace. Happy Birthday! Again!

Isabella had the same edition herself, also a birthday present from her mother. Though, as she recalled, her inscription was to do with Tolstoy saying that “the one thing necessary, in life as in art, is to tell the truth.”

Oh Mum, Mum, Mum.

The doorbell rang, startling her. Or rather, the doorbell chimed. She put the book in the holdall with the rest, swung it over her shoulder, and then bent to pick up the box and various plastic bags. She remembered (with a bite of her lip) that it had once been one of those nerve-shredding London buzzers, before Lina took action. Now it was a Serenity Chime.

And Isabella had to let it chime serenely all the way to the final chord as she struggled into the hall, the holdall creeping forward and refusing to stay properly over her shoulder, the plastic bags straining at her fingers, the box weighing her down.

Jesus. I’m coming. Persistent bastard. Surely not Gabriel? No, he would come straight up. For a horrible moment she thought that maybe it was Lina, returning impromptu from her mother’s, and that there would now be more tears and that terrible slow-motion anguish. And what in Christ’s name was she, Isabella, going to say? But then she realized with relief that Lina, of course, had keys to her own flat. And Lina would not come back now the decision had been made, however unconvincingly, however madly. Because in her own way, Lina was far stronger than Gabriel knew. And though he was the emotional vandal now, in the long run it would be her brother whose suffering was greater. Dear God. Ten percent more or less of a bastard and Gabs would have been fine.

The chime built toward its final chord again. She managed to put down the box on Lina’s little telephone table without everything underneath sliding to the floor. It must be Adam. He had been waiting with his car and partially blocking the narrow road—maybe there was a warden. Desperate to prevent the whole cycle from beginning again, Isabella grabbed the entryphone, one hand still balancing the box, fingers now white and taut from the heavy handles of the bags.

“Hello. I’m just coming down.”

But it wasn’t Adam. The accent was East European. “Hello—this is Gabriel Glover?”

“Nope.”

“This is Gabriel Glover’s house?”

“Yes… No. Yes. For about another two minutes, anyway.”

“I am sorry. May I speak with Gabriel Glover, please?”

“I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.” Some strange friend of her brother’s, she guessed. “But I’m coming out. Hang on a second.”

For heaven’s sake. She hung the thing back on the wall, placed the key in her teeth, hoisted box, bags, and holdall, pulled the door shut behind her with her trailing foot. Probably some Sunday thing her brother had forgotten about. Not surprisingly. She put everything down on the stairs, locked the door, jiggling the key against the stiffness, picked everything up again, cursed her brother, and set off for the front door.

She did not regret offering to help Gabriel move, of course—she would gladly have offered to fetch his things from hell itself—but she was conscious that innocent Adam had been volunteered as a supplementary driver without being present at the discussion. And having carried out the best part of a trunk’s worth himself, he was no doubt anxious to return to his own (much better) life. She reached the front door in a hurry, therefore, as well as a fluster.

A tall, gaunt-looking man in a dreadful dark brown suit was waiting just outside as she stepped into the colorless light with the box underneath her chin, threatening to spill. She was aware of Adam double-parked and leaning across so he could see out of the passenger window. And the books were heavy.

Before she could say anything, though, and just as the main door swung shut behind her, the man spoke.

“Hello. I am here to see Gabriel Glover, please. He said to me to meet him here at one. Is he inside this house?”

She tried to nod over the box as she paused in her stride. She recognized the accent now—Russian. Of course. But it was hard to tell if the formality of his manner was a function of his speaking English or the purpose of his visit. Obviously her brother had some strange friends—either that or gambling debts.

“I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Now is not a good time. What is it about? I’ll tell him that you ca—oh, shitting hell.” The holdall had swung around again, off her shoulder, and she was in danger of losing some books from beneath her chin.

The man stepped forward, and before she had time to wonder what he was going to do, or for that matter to be afraid, he had taken the box.

“Thanks. Thanks…” He remained motionless while she sorted out all the bags. She looked up and met his eyes—sunken, turquoise, arresting. “Thank you.”

“Are you Isabella?”

The question took her completely aback. They stood on the doorstep facing each other for a second.

“Yeah—yes. I’m Gabriel’s sister.” The books clearly weren’t half so heavy for him, though he held the box oddly, she noticed, resting it on his arms, which he stretched out in front of him as if he were a forklift, hands free at the end. The guy must know her brother quite well after all. She relaxed a few fractions.

“Sorry.” She indicated the car. “We’re in a rush. You’re lucky you came today. Gabriel is moving out. This is all his stuff. Or unlucky, I suppose. There’s been a bit of an upheaval. You’re—”

“My name is Arkady Artamenkov. I am here from St. Petersburg. Your brother told me to come to this house to talk to him… to talk to both of you. This is how I know your name.”

And only now it occurred to her that it was something to do with her mother. Her curiosity sparked. The bags were murdering her fingers again.

“Hang on.” She started toward the car. Adam reached over his shoulder and opened the back door, and she placed the bags and holdall on the floor.

“Sorry,” she said to Adam, “just one sec ”

The man was now standing behind her, holding the box. She turned, took it from him, and dumped it flat on the back seat.

“Thank God for that.” She stood up straight as he took a step back. “Is it something to do with the flat?”

“No, no.” The other’s face changed, as if he realized that she was mistaking him completely. “No, I am sorry. I am a friend of your mother from Petersburg. I know your mother very well. Today I was going to speak with your brother about this, about her. He said you would both be here.”

“Oh. Oh God, sorry.” She wanted to send Adam home alone. She considered a second. No, it simply wasn’t fair. Her curiosity was burning her up now, though, and she felt her neck going red. She must get his number and organize another time. Gabriel should be there too. The guy’s English was better than she had first thought. She softened her tone. “Oh, I see … Sorry. What a balls-up.” She put her hand through her hair. “It’s just a very bad day today. My brother is— Gabriel is—moving out because he and his girlfriend, Lina, are splitting up. For a while.”