Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

After two bad nights and an empty, lonely day, Vlad came back. He launched into the room on a Sunday afternoon, all energy and muscle, smelling wholesomely of baking and washing powder, grey eyes bright under his mop of dark hair. He stood by the door a moment, observing the kindly orderly’s backside as she leant forward to replace the notes at the end of the bed.

‘Come in, come in! Don’t stand on ceremony! Is that for me?’

Vlad laid before him a folded newspaper in which reposed a voluptuous serving of creamy torte Napoleon. Anatoly Borisovich licked his lips.

‘Well how lovely!’ Excitement made the words jump. ‘What a treat!’

‘She was thumping about in the kitchen half the night making that. I told her about you, you see. And then I couldn’t sleep, she was making so much noise. A lot of work, apparently!’ He was walking around the end of the bed, talking to Anatoly Borisovich, but his eyes were mostly on the orderly, slipping to her bosom as she pressed past him on her way out.

‘Nice jumper,’ she said.

‘Italian wool. Feel it.’

He offered her his arm to touch. She trailed her fingers across it, the cracked skin snagging on the fine knit.

‘Lovely. Must have been expensive?’ Her lips twitched as she pushed through the doorway, not waiting for his reply.

The old man found himself frowning, mouth open, but didn’t know why. Vlad turned to him, and he pushed his cheeks into a grin.

‘Well, I do appreciate it! Look at this!’ He raised the paper to his face to inspect its contents more closely, fingers scooping up the layers of fluffy, fragile pastry enveloped in rich yellow custard. Delight dropped into his mouth and he savoured it, eyes closed, indulging the sweetness with every cell of his tongue, the sugar saturating his being and making his teeth itch. The clatter of the blinds going up brought him back to the moment. ‘The weather is against us today, Vlad. It won’t be long until the first frost. But the heating is working again. It has quite a gurgle.’

Vlad did not sit down but paced the room, twisting on his heel with a fierce squeak as he did so. He stopped by the bedside.

‘Is something wrong?’ Anatoly Borisovich stilled his hand half-way to his mouth.

‘No!’ He squealed away, pacing the other side of the bed as Anatoly Borisovich chewed. Again he stopped and looked at his watch, its face the size of a field mushroom.

‘Eat your fill. I’m just a bit… Well…’ He grabbed the visitor’s chair and whirled it round to sit on it backwards, thumping his buttocks down onto the worn plastic. The old man winced.

‘Thank you, Anatoly Borisovich!’

‘What for? Eating cake?’

‘For agreeing to take part in my study. It really is good of you. Let’s get started!’

‘But I’m still eating!’ The old man fired out crumbs with the words, studding Vlad’s midnight jumper with a hundred creamy stars. ‘You can’t hand a man a plate of torte Napoleon and expect a miracle! This is so good. Are you sure you don’t want to try?’ He held out the paper and Vlad recoiled. ‘Please give my compliments to your landlady, she is a huge culinary talent. And you are a lucky boy!’ He stopped to smack his lips and dabbed at a trickle of dribble with his fingers. Vlad checked his watch, wiped custard specks from its face and, tutting, took it off, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.

‘Very good, Anatoly Borisovich. I will talk, you will listen. Yes, and eat, that’s fine. But to remind you: today is our third meeting. I need to get writing my case study. So what I need to know is what happened to bring you to this place. OK? That’s all. A clear indication of what set off your… Collapse? Breakdown? Dementia? Which phrase do you think best suits your symptoms?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Very well. I have a theory – well, a few different theories, to be honest – about what is afflicting you, but I need more facts. And then, well, hopefully I can help you to go home. You want that, don’t you?’

Anatoly Borisovich could not, as yet, remember where home was, but he nodded enthusiastically.

‘So, let us begin.’

Vlad cleared his throat and sat upright with pen poised, a serious look on his face.

Anatoly Borisovich sighed. ‘You are behaving oddly,’ he said eventually. ‘What’s wrong?’

Vlad ground the pen nib into the blank page.

‘Nothing is wrong, I—’

‘So what’s the hurry?’ He scooped more torte Napoleon into his mouth, and then sucked each finger.

The pen flipped into the air and landed under the bed.

‘I… it’s just—’ Vlad scratched the back of his head viciously. ‘The exams are approaching, and I’m worried. I still have a lot of work to finish.’

‘Exams? Is that so?’ Anatoly Borisovich chewed thoughtfully. The wind rattled the window.

‘It’s not just the exams.’ Vlad leapt from the chair and took up pacing. ‘Polly and I—’

‘Polly?’ Again a fistful of torte paused in the air.

‘My girlfriend.’

‘Ah, oh yes.’

‘You probably wouldn’t understand. She is also a student. She’s very stressed. It makes her very demanding. I think she’s a little… anyway, I don’t know what to do—’

‘You’re right, I wouldn’t understand,’ the old man agreed and mumbled more cake into his cheek. ‘This really is quite delicious. Delectable!’

‘Is it?’ Vlad’s breathing was ragged, his expression pained.

Their eyes met.

‘You do, Vlad, what is right. It’s very simple. Trust your heart.’

‘Right.’ He stared at the lone pine tree as Anatoly Borisovich chewed laboriously. ‘Modern life, Anatoly Borisovich, is not so simple. If only you understood…’ He shook himself, and issued a dazzling smile. ‘Anyway, we must finish today. Your story—’

‘Yes, my story. So, where were we, let me recap…?’

‘Oh…’ Vlad sat back in the visitor’s chair and rested his head in his hands.

‘Yes, yes, I think we’d met me, and Lev, and Baba…’

‘And the moth boy,’ Vlad added quickly and loudly, without raising his head.

‘Yes! Oh yes. Yuri moth boy! So you do believe me!’ Anatoly Borisovich chuckled, and turned his eyes to the horizon. ‘He came out of the forest. He was real, you know.’

‘If you say so. But has anything else come back to you?’

‘Oh, it all came back to me. The day they brought me in here. It was all there, in fragments, like a ripped-up letter. I’ve put it back together, talking to you.’

‘That’s very good, Anatoly Borisovich.’ Vlad nodded and smiled, hope glinting in his eyes. ‘So you remember, now, the day you came in? What preceded it?’

‘Not really. You see, it’s moth boy – he’s pushed everything else out.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I. But let’s pretend we do?’

‘Finish your story, Anatoly Borisovich. Just finish your story.’ Vlad ran a hand over his eyes.

Yuri followed Tolya and Baba into the cottage, hesitant at first, nervous of Lev’s friendly, soft-pawed attention. He huddled by the stove for an hour or more, leaning against its warmth, his ill-fitting, pock-marked skin gradually blossoming from ice to milk to a soft honey hue. He crossed his arms over his chest each time Lev passed by to sniff at his boots, and said little. Occasionally he stood, as if drawn to the light of the lamps, intent on moving towards them, flapping his arms, his hands wavering at shoulder height. All the time he was smiling to himself, a secret smile, thought Tolya, while his teeth chattered.

Tolya helped Baba start the soup before taking a seat on the other side of the stove, observing the new creature from a safe distance.

‘Are you a spirit?’ he whispered, curiosity getting the better of fear. He wanted to look into Yuri’s face, to see what mysteries lay there, but couldn’t hold his gaze: the boy’s eyes shivered in their orbits, seldom settling on any object apart from the lamps. This wasn’t a proper boy. But he wasn’t a moth either. Whatever he was, it seemed to Tolya that Yuri wasn’t interested in him. Yuri wasn’t his friend. Just like the boys at school.