Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

He stopped at a dairy stall for a small cube of cheese: whiter than snow, it was solid and salty, with the supple, rubbery texture he liked. Next he bought flat-leaf parsley, richly scented black bread, and a tiny pat of soft, salt-less butter that came wrapped in brown paper. He had his own aubergine spread and salted tomatoes in the store cupboard, the result of sweaty summer labours at the dacha . The snacks he would serve would be solid and unassuming. Savoury was required. Sveta’s warmness towards him, her sunny openness, made his palms sweat. There must be no hint of intimacy today: sweetmeats were out, as was anything pink, red or yellow. Bread and cheese would do: theirs must be friendship in the face of adversity – and nothing more. He could not and should not encourage closeness.

Gor’s old string bag was almost full and it pulled at his shoulder. He was sniffing a tea sample, long nose buried amongst the pungent black leaves, when he had the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. He turned to his left, tea still in hand, and scanned the blur of faces and hats: brown, pink, sallow, fiery, knitted, woven, peaked; there was no one he knew, and no one was staring. He began to screw the lid back on and felt a sharp dig in his ribs. The tin dropped from his hand, showering leaves over the stall, his coat and the floor before clanging to the ground. The stallholder fell upon him, clucking her tongue and waving him away. A snigger slinked around his elbow and he turned to challenge the culprit, but there was no crowd behind him and no laughing faces: no one, in fact. He dusted down his coat and moved slowly on down the aisle, eyes roving restlessly between the stalls.

At the butcher, pigs’ heads laughed at him from hooks in the beams, dribbling blood onto the sawdust below. In a cage on the floor jostled half a dozen rabbits with whiffling pink noses. They regarded him with trembling intensity: white rabbits, exactly like the one he had found on his doorstep. A chopper whacked a knuckle of pork from its trotter, sending silver bone splinters and globules of fat high into the air. Gor jumped. The butcher laughed and bellowed something he did not understand. He shook his head and hurried down an aisle where the empty eyes of a hundred fishes watched him from brown bowls of salty slime. An old woman with two teeth stepped before him, waving a handful of cod roes under his nose. He felt bile rise in his throat and lurched for the exit.

He slammed through the door into an alley and leant momentarily against the bulk of a bin, breathing deeply, eyes shut. When he opened them, a stray dog, jaws clamped on a fish tail, was standing before him, growling softly. He began walking. He knew you should show no fear, but found it easier said than done. He could almost feel the mutt’s teeth ripping into his tendons, and broke into a trot, the string bag bumping uncomfortably on his hip. His footsteps echoed as he skipped around piles of leaves shifting on the paving slabs. He heard a whistle behind him: a familiar tune – Mussorgsky, the very notes he’d enjoyed at home this morning. He looked around, ankle turning in the leaves. The only movement was the limping, empty-eyed dog. He hurried on to the main street, relieved to join the bodies shuffling to and fro.

He passed a thick queue snaking around the corner. The face of each queuer was tormented, their voices calling out to no one, spitting shards of harsh words about robbers, thieves, the government, empty bellies and despair. No one listened, not even the other queuers. Gor walked on.

The head of the queue rested at a closed door: the local PPP Invest offices. A doorman shaped like a bullet stood immobile behind the glass. Someone threw a bank book and it bounced with a thud on the glass just left of his head. He put a hand inside his jacket where his heart should have been, and the crowd drew back, gasping. Gor hurried on and crossed the road, looking over his shoulders this way and that, without meaning to.

They were still trying to get their money out. Life savings invested in nothing but stupidity: PPP Invest – a classic pyramid scheme. More and more people paid in – an entire week’s pay, or a month’s pension, or a lifetime’s savings, or even… and the ridiculous dividends were paid out, week on week. But at some point, the fever had to break, didn’t it? That’s how it worked: at a certain point, maximum capacity was reached, the promised dividend became simply unimaginable: as big as the moon. That was the point when the bosses snuck across the border with lorry-loads of dollars, and the investors were left behind – with nothing but paper and despair. Just paper, fluttering in their hands, their plans of a happy retirement, or building their own house on the weekends, or buying a new fridge and TV so much salty water on their cheeks.

He stopped to cough into his handkerchief, eyeing the queue from around its edges, and felt a creeping in his neck. Someone was following him. He twisted around, eyes raking the crowd: a head turned quickly, a woman moved away. Gor checked his pockets, patting for wallet and keys, and whistled with relief: nothing missing. She was weaving through the crowd now, vaguely familiar. Did he know that girl? Did she know him? Maybe she just reminded him of someone? There were so many people now – a forest of faces.

He looked at his boots and pulled the shopping bag higher on his shoulder. He was in need of a soft-boiled egg – a crossword – tea – Tchaikovsky. And maybe, yes, maybe a chat with Sveta. Maybe he didn’t have to wait until the rehearsal. Maybe he could give her a ring. He could ring to discuss the mild weather, and the order of rehearsal, or the situation in Chechnya, or a recipe for borscht. Perhaps he would do that. He hurried for the trolleybus stop.

Polly studied her reflection in the window. There were grey smudges beneath her wide, black eyes, and her cheekbones shone sharp white against the frame of her hair. It had been a late night and an early morning. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’d caught a cold; it was getting late in the year to be making out on park benches till midnight, after all.

She hadn’t really had much choice. Vlad had been so full of himself, of long words and crowing exclamations and full-blown doctor-bluster; she’d had to stay. He’d repeated to her, almost word for word, the story the old man had told him, and his conclusions on his health. She hadn’t asked any questions at all. Moth boy, the burning cottage, the sparks in the night sky, the ravaged faces of the family and neighbours; all had been presented to her in tableau, and she’d had a good look as she shivered. People were wrong when they said vodka warmed you from the inside.

‘And his cousin – you know, who loved to scare him, who told him these old stories – is the old Armenian! What are the chances? Anatoly Borisovich is in there, all on his own in the Vim – and he’s never come to visit him, not once!’

She took a gulp from the bottle and passed it to Vlad.

‘That surprises you? It doesn’t surprise me. He’s better off without him.’

‘Well, from what you’ve said, you might be right. But still…’ Vlad took a sip and grimaced. ‘Okh, next time, can we get some Coke with this?’

‘You and your Coke!’ She leant in and licked his spirit-burnt lips. ‘You know it’s full of sugar, as well as chemicals?’

He chuckled as he pushed his hand down the back of her trousers.

‘Do you think… do you think you can cure him, Vlad?’

The hand squeezed her buttocks. ‘I don’t think “cure” is the right word, princess. He’s remembered a lot, but he’s old, frail – and there’s a blank where his recent past should be. I will make a diagnosis, recommendations, you never know – but I doubt he will go home.’ His other hand squeezed into her trousers. ‘Dr Spatchkin has concerns about his heart, too.’