Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘I was wrapped in a blanket: it took all my skin off. And they carried me away. They carried me away and I don’t remember what happened. There was a fever. They thought I would die. I didn’t.’

Vlad picked up the plastic water jug and emptied it into Anatoly Borisovich’s glass. The old man took it, and sipped.

‘That’s how I got these scars.’ The old man rubbed a hand over his cheeks and smiled, chuckling to himself as his eyes remained stark. ‘I was going to save Baba, but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t do my duty. I scuttled away.’ He drew a shaky breath.

‘I’m sorry, Anatoly Borisovich. That’s a… a sad tale indeed. But look how much you’ve remembered!’ Vlad placed a large, warm hand on the old man’s forearm. ‘And do you recall what happened next?’

‘What happened?’ the old man grunted softly. ‘They sifted through the wreckage, to gather up the bones before the animals got them. That’s what happened next.’

‘And… To you, I mean?’

‘Me? Little Tolya? They buried my baba next to my mama in the cemetery on the lane going out of town. There was no priest, no service. I was too sick to go, and Papa couldn’t attend: he was on a quota. In fact, I don’t think I saw Papa again. It was just the way it was. My uncle and aunt and cousin all went, paid their respects along with Goloshov – ha! I saw the wooden marker, a few months later, there in the soil – crooked!

‘I went to live with my cousin’s family, and we moved to Krasny Bor, a few kilometres away. It wasn’t the same. I wasn’t like them. My cousin spent weeks crying like a baby every time he looked at me, and then, well, he avoided me. In school, and in our shared room. Our mothers were sisters but, you know, my mother had already gone, and his mother was a funny kind of woman. She chose to marry an Armenian. Not a bad thing in itself but… they’re secretive people, you know? Look after their own. I felt… apart.’

‘That’s really… very interesting!’ said Vlad, scribbling into his notepad.

‘I’m not saying they mistreated me, but…’ Anatoly Borisovich sniffed, and ran a finger around the bottom of his right eye. ‘I was sent away to military school. Imagine me – in a military school! Ha! Wrenched from the forest and sent away to barracks, where they tried to teach me to follow orders and put together a gun. Me, an artist. I was there a long time, but they gave up in the end.’ He smiled and sat silently for a while, eyes fixed on the air, on nothing. ‘When I came back, my cousin had taken over the entire room. There was no space for me.’

‘So, do you have… living family, Anatoly Borisovich? I’ve found no family record in your file. This cousin—’

‘Yes. Cousin Gor. He’s still living… around here, somewhere.’

‘Gor?’ Vlad stopped writing, mouth open. ‘Er, that’s an unusual name!’

‘Goryoun Tigranovich Papasyan: a good Armenian name, my boy. As I recall… we both moved to Rostov. He came first, and I followed. I still hoped to connect… for family ties, for something.’

Vlad had dropped his pen and was making a meal of picking it up.

‘You’re quite the butterfingers today,’ observed the old man, his eyes closing as a great sigh pushed its way out of his chest.

‘Ha! Yes!’ Vlad chewed a fingernail and frowned. ‘That’s amazing… but, no… are you sure he’s your cousin?’

Anatoly Borisovich opened an eye. ‘Is that really a question?’

Vlad chewed a second nail. ‘No. I’m sorry. It’s just… oh, never mind.’ He scratched his head. ‘Nothing you need to worry about. And Yuri?’ he said finally. ‘What became of the moth boy? Did you ever see him again, after the fire?’

The other eye opened and directed a bright gaze into Vlad’s expectant face. ‘Yuri?’ he said with a puzzled smile. ‘He was gone. No one saw him again. He’d started the fire, you see, and he fizzed in the flames. He’d fried, like moths do. That’s what happens, isn’t it?’ He leant forward suddenly, hands gripping the bedsheets. ‘They die, if they get too close to the light. What else could happen?’

Vlad stared open-mouthed at the old man, and then leafed back through his notes. ‘But how do you know? You didn’t mention him being there, when you woke. Did you see him?’

Anatoly Borisovich’s eyes burnt silently into Vlad’s, his cheeks crinkling like weathered paint as he smiled.

‘I am confused: that’s why I’m here. I don’t know what you’re… You’re trying to blame me? Of course! I knew you would! But it was him: Yuri moth boy! He started the fire. He killed my baba. He didn’t mean to. But he was always trying to get to the light. You must believe me!’

Anatoly Borisovich yanked the covers up over his stubbly, crumb-strewn chin.

‘I still hear him tapping, poor dead Yuri. Tapping on the windows, waiting to get in. He was tapping for days when I… when I—’ The old man broke off and wiped a hand across his eyes.

‘Tapping?’

Vlad looked from the old man to the window and back again, and something in the grimness of the face sent a soft chill across his skin. He pulled the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands and chewed on the end of his pen.

He read over today’s notes : vivid childhood imagination, coupled with possible early psychosis, led to hallucinations and projection of feelings and fears. Story of Yuri the moth boy an obvious fabrication / hallucination: the fictitious character an invisible friend. He added the words: blamed in retrospect by AB for the fire and death of grandmother, now those events have been recalled following long period of, what’s it called – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Need to look it up. So, could have been arson or accident? Murder, or just manslaughter? In conclusion, likely triggers for physical / mental collapse on or around 8th September 1994: hallucinations brought on by fever and bout of ’flu diagnosed on arrival, coupled with malnutrition and sudden, uncontrolled recollection of the traumatic childhood event, due to the above and… He tapped his pen nib against the paper.

‘Was it the tapping that brought on your… recollection and collapse, do you think? You heard it, just before you came in here? Was it the trigger?’ he asked eventually. ‘We need a trigger.’

‘Ah… Yes! Maybe?’ The old man’s eyes lit up. ‘I’m not sure. It’s such a blur. I remember a tree… I couldn’t sleep! Such tap-tap-tapping!’

Vlad smiled to himself, jotting down: … a trigger: the repeated tapping of a tree on the window, echoing the mythical moth boy tapping. The result: a frenzy of self-recognition, guilt and denial, resulting in a loss of all faculties and an inability to care for himself . Then he added an asterisk and the words, underlined: Amazing coincidence – Papasyan is his cousin!!! Estranged, however. He sat up straight in his seat trying to hold down a triumphant grin. ‘Superb, Anatoly Borisovich! That’s just what I needed to hear! It’s all clear to me now!’

He shook the old man’s hand, pumping it up and down. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear we can end these visits now. You have told me what caused your collapse – and now I can write it all up and… er, sort it all out! That might take some time – I have to consult my tutor and all that, but well done! Well done! I’ll be back, at some point…’

He hummed as he slammed out of the room, still smiling, not looking back. He could hardly wait to get started on his case study. It all seemed straightforward now. And he’d have to tell Polly about it. She was sure to be surprised. She might even be impressed! He looked at his watch, and thought of her peachy buttocks.

Alone in his room, Anatoly Borisovich covered his face in his hands.