Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘I hate you,’ Albina hissed.

Sveta blinked, sniffed, smiled brightly, and pushed the girl sharply between the shoulder-blades in the direction of her dance mistress.

‘She’s so glad you’ve come, Gor. And so am I. It is difficult, when we have no man around the house.’ She smiled up at him, eyes wide, and wiped imaginary lipstick marks from the corners of her raspberry red mouth. ‘Shall we take our seats? We’re in the balcony. I can’t wait!’

Gor stared after her receding form as she made her way up the glistening concrete steps. He frowned. He was not sure he should have come at all.

Row B2 was very full. The short battle to claim their seats combined with the damp heat of the auditorium brought a glow to Sveta’s cheeks and nose. Once roosted in her rightful place, she pulled out her compact to repair the damage and, angling it for a suitable light, spied the most beautiful man she had ever seen, sitting just behind her. A young man with curly brown hair, full lips and a strong, angular jaw. She wiggled her mirror for a bit more. She observed his neck: smooth pale skin stretched taut over muscular flesh, sporting what appeared to be a love-bite. She squinted and adjusted the mirror once more: his eyes were the clearest grey, framed by long, dark lashes, so sensitive… almost feminine. His gaze bounced off hers in the mirror, and she snapped it shut, almost bursting into a giggle. Here, just behind her, was a sentient statue straight from the olive groves of the Roman world: a living David-cum-Hercules. She stowed her mirror, and, after waiting a few seconds, turned her head to have a proper look. Yes, there he was, not more than a few metres from her, a living god bursting out of a cream-and-grey patterned roll-neck sweater. He must be a swimmer, she thought, or a gymnast, perhaps. He was reading the mimeographed programme and holding the hand of a dark-haired girl, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. Her face was turned away, dark locks hiding her expression, but Sveta could see a strong nose and her jaw, set firm. She felt her own brittle hair with her fingertips, and her small, soft chin. The man spoke and played his fingers through the tips of the girl’s hair as if to discover her face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I know how much it means to you.’

‘Oh really? I’m not sure you do. You’re just not trying hard enough!’ the girl replied loudly.

‘I’m doing my best,’ he said.

‘Well, you need to do more.’

His programme dropped to the floor, and Sveta turned back in her seat. She smiled to herself: young love could be hard work. She could well believe the gorgeous young man wasn’t trying hard enough.

Gor turned to her, humming a little tune, vague ‘pom-pom-poms’ escaping his mouth. He looked a little less severe than usual.

‘Isn’t this nice?’ She wiped imaginary lipstick from the corners of her mouth.

‘It is certainly different,’ he nodded, looking around the auditorium. ‘Such excitement! Such babble!’

The young couple behind her were still at loggerheads, now embarking on an exchange of urgent whispers. She sighed contentedly and turned her attention to the stage.

Fifty minutes later, Gor looked at his watch for the sixth time. They had so far endured ballet, folk dancing, a spot of folk singing, folk rock, some sort of modern expressionism, and something noisy and energetic that Sveta informed him was ‘disco’, beloved of black people in America. Gor harrumphed and expressed a hope that the black people in America performed it with more aplomb than the children of School No. 2 in Azov. At this point, Sveta had dug him in the ribs with her elbow, and tutted loudly.

Albina had looked miserable throughout her eight minutes of the modern expressionist segment. She was supposed to represent ‘technology’. Her hands had flailed and her feet had stumbled as she tried to convey the positive global outcomes of mechanisation. Things got worse when she caught her toe in a thread hanging from her costume. She wobbled and fell, crushing the white papier-mâché dove placed centre-stage to represent world peace.

‘Oh, that’s a poor omen,’ said Sveta, ‘I don’t think we want technology to do that, do we?’ She smiled a brave smile, and waved to her daughter as she stomped off stage, sniffing and carrying pieces of mashed dove.

At the interval, Sveta propelled Gor towards the ice-cream queue, where their stoical patience was eventually rewarded with a pair of stubby brown cornets. They were squished, chewy looking, each with a small paper disc stuck atop an ice-cream permafrost, becoming part of it. Sveta sucked hers off quickly and bit into the ice-cream, while Gor hesitated, looking perplexed, then applied long fingers to peel off the disc with a great deal of care. Sveta watched, strangely enthralled, as he took a tiny wooden spatula from his pocket and began to chip away the ice, flicking milk crystals onto the steps where they stood on the edge of the heaving foyer.

‘My teeth,’ he explained as he caught her gaze. ‘They are all my own, which I sometimes think is a disadvantage. Cold or hot, it can all be a problem.’ He curled his top lip to reveal fangs that went on and on, right up towards the base of his nose, almost like those of a rodent. Sveta shuddered and looked away, straight into the dark eyes of the Roman god’s girl. She was staring at her, across the room, really looking at her this time – with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

‘This séance—’ Gor began.

The bell clattered for the second half, and Sveta jumped.

‘Tell me later,’ she mouthed and turned away, hurrying back up the stairs to the comfort of their seats.

‘Give me strength!’ muttered Gor as he wiped his whiskers and trod slowly behind her.

They pushed themselves back along the crowded row like toothpaste in a tube. A copy of the programme, pink and crumpled, lay on Gor’s seat. He picked it up, sat himself down, and offered it to Sveta. ‘It’s not mine,’ she said, ‘I didn’t buy one.’

‘Neither did I.’

He opened it, stared for a moment, and then dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers.

Sveta looked from Gor to the paper and back again. His eye was twitching. She bent to retrieve it and flicked open the pages. There, in the middle, scrawled across the fuzzy purple lettering, was a message just for Gor:

‘Here we are, now you sit down and have a little brandy. In fact, I think I’ll join you. Watching one’s daughter perform is always nerve-racking.’ She fussed around, finding glasses. ‘And what with the dove and everything… Yes, a tot of brandy will help us both! What a trying evening!’ Sveta pulled the cork out of the ancient bottle on Gor’s sideboard, and poured two large measures. ‘There, a taste of the old country for you!’ she said with a smile, and handed a glass to him.

‘Sveta, I’m not really Armenian, I’m—’

‘Not to worry!’ she said brightly. ‘Down the hatch!’ She drained her glass in a single gulp without the slightest shiver or cough, although her hands trembled. ‘Oh! There’s nothing like Armenian brandy!’

Gor took a tiny sip and coughed as the richness burnt the back of his nose and slid like embers down his throat. It was a welcome sensation, replacing the cold of the street and the bone-rattling of the bus. He was glad to be home, glad to be away from the Palace of Youth and the crowds and the faces and the hidden threat that lurked behind them. Something about that message, and the way it had been left, had chilled him to the core.