Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

Vlad snorted and slowly smoothed the blankets across the old man’s bed.

‘Maybe so. But I’m glad it was just a… nap.’

‘I must sleep more. But I feel we made progress, don’t you?’

‘Well…’ Vlad pushed the chair onto its two back legs and regarded the old man with a small smile. ‘I can’t really see it, myself. Hearing about your childhood in Siberia is very interesting, and I can see that just talking, just reliving things, is making you feel better. There’s colour in those cheeks, Anatoly Borisovich!’ The old man returned his smile with a grin. ‘But I need to know about your breakdown in September, and I’m still interested in those scars, for my case study. I have to write a report on you – for my medical degree, and for your best interests.’ He leant close to the old man’s face, seeking his eyes. ‘And my report can’t really be about your babushka and Lev, and this moth boy, can it? Do you understand?’

‘Ah.’ Anatoly Borisovich’s hand floated up to his face and his fingers felt into the relief of his cheek, following the crevices and smooth patches: the map of his past. ‘But it’s all related… you need to understand… family…’

As the old man spoke, the kindly orderly appeared in the doorway.

‘You’re wanted,’ she said to Vlad with a coquettish grin, ‘in the office. It’s your girl again, and I think she’s in a temper!’

‘ Blin ,’ said Vlad, looking at his watch. He lurched from the visitor’s chair, its feet squealing sharply across the floor. ‘I’m going to be late.’

‘Tsk! Even with your fancy imported watch?’ She shook her head with a laugh and walked away up the corridor.

Anatoly Borisovich pulled a face as he closed his eyes. ‘Your girl is cross. That won’t do.’

‘I think it’s all the stress! I thought a date would be different, but she’s…’ Vlad sighed, grabbing up his pens and paper.

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Palace of Youth.’

The old man grunted. ‘You’d better go then!’ His shoulders shook momentarily with silent laughter. ‘But come back,’ he gurgled eventually, ‘as soon as you can, and I will tell you all: everything you want to hear! We will get your case study complete!’

He sank back on the pillows, feeling as if he had been sweeping the yard all day, catching the leaves above his head and breaking the ice on the well with his knuckles; exhilarated, and exhausted.

‘Very well. But listen, please.’ Vlad’s voice was hurried. ‘I will bring more pryaniki next time, or a cake perhaps?’ Anatoly Borisovich opened an eye. ‘Cake? You like cake? OK, so next time there will be cake, and you will get to the point, and answer some questions, and we will both be happy.’ He turned for the door, and then looked back. ‘You’ve spent almost the entire session talking about leaves and trees today, Anatoly Borisovich, and it won’t do: they’re not what caused your breakdown, are they? I need to know about you . I’ll be back when I can.’ The door slammed.

The blinds were still up. In the distance, Anatoly Borisovich could make out the lone tree beyond the fence shifting in the wind, its branches outstretched, shivering.

A knock at the door accompanied the scrape of its opening.

‘Do you need the toilet?’

It was the grumpy orderly.

‘No, thank you. But I would like some paper and crayons.’

‘Matron said no: said it might excite you.’ The orderly stomped towards him and held out a small steel cup filled with a viscous green liquid. ‘Drink this, and settle down. You shouldn’t get excited. That Vladimir shouldn’t be exciting you. He’s only a student.’

‘Maybe so. But talking… is much better medicine than this.’ He took the cup and swirled its contents. She drew down the blinds with a clang.

‘Come on, drink up! I’ve got others to be seeing to,’ she snapped, returning to stand over him, hands on hips.

Anatoly Borisovich held his nose, gave the orderly a wink and gulped down the medicine. ‘I drank it all.’ He grinned. ‘Do I get a prize?’

‘There’s no need to snatch,’ he whispered, after she had slammed out of the room.

‘My dear Gor!’

‘Good afternoon, Sveta.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ She didn’t sound sorry. Her voice was warm and husky, like fresh rye bread.

‘That is quite all right.’ Gor frowned at the receiver.

‘But I wanted to know how you were.’

‘How I am? I am quite well.’

‘No ill effects at all? From the moth, the other night, I mean?’

Gor considered for a moment, and ran his tongue around his very clean teeth.

‘None,’ he said firmly. ‘All residue was swept away when I returned home. I have had no problems with my stomach, or anything else. All is well.’

‘That is good. I have to say, Albina insists it was nothing to do with her.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I believe her.’

‘Of course. We must all believe her. She is a child.’

‘Yes. So… I was curious. Well, not curious. I was worried… has anything else happened to you, since Tuesday?’

‘Since Tuesday?’

‘Since, since the moth incident.’

‘Of course, the usual has continued.’

‘The usual?’

‘The phone ringing out in the night. Generally around midnight, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.’

‘Do you answer it?’ Her voice was quick.

‘Occasionally. I don’t know why.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. No one.’

‘How odd. Anything else? Any other foodstuffs disappeared?’

‘Thankfully, no.’ He paused. ‘But I got a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘A letter.’

‘Who from? What did it say?’

‘I did not read it.’ Gor did not want to discuss the letter, shoved into his mailbox down in the foyer. How had it been delivered? Not by the postal service, that was clear enough. Someone had got in through the locked front door, delivered their message, and left. The dusty pot plants and the shiny brown floor tiles could tell him nothing. Baba Burnikova, nodding behind the desk, could also tell him nothing, apart from that a hand-delivered letter could not have come without her knowing. The empty courtyard, glistening with last night’s rain and a thousand snail trails, could tell him nothing. He had opened the letter there in the foyer, leaning against the solid mass of the radiator, warming the backs of his thighs as he read. His name and flat number had been written in a childish hand, no doubt to disguise the writer. Inside it contained six words in an ugly scrawl.

‘You didn’t read it? But it could have given us clues, Gor! It might have been a spirit letter!’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. It has gone down the chute.’

‘Oh dear!’

‘This is no criminal investigation, Sveta. It’s just some no-good hooliganism.’

‘Well, you were upset, no doubt. My news is good though – I have telephoned my contact.’

‘What contact?’

‘The psychic lady. Remember, I told you about her on Tuesday?’

Gor closed his eyes and swallowed before he spoke.

‘And?’

‘She can do it a week today.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is that too long? I’m afraid she is all booked up until then. Something to do with Greco-Roman wrestling at the Elderly Club. I couldn’t really tell: she can be a little vague on the telephone.’

‘No, no, that is very good. Next Friday it is. I do hope you haven’t gone to a lot of trouble on my account, Sveta, I’m really not—’

‘No trouble! I want to help. And Madame Zoya can certainly help us divine what, exactly, is going on here. She has a marvellous gift.’

‘Quite.’