Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘That’s a lovely one,’ he observed in an undertone, licking his lips. ‘For an investment, maybe, you know, longer term. How much is it, can you see? I can’t count the noughts.’ His nose screwed up to refocus the dead eyes, and Polly looked around, confused.

‘Girl – tell me, how much is it?’ he said more forcefully, finally glancing her way, spittle-flecked lips drawn back from greedy teeth. ‘Can’t you read?’

She didn’t look at the price, but stared him straight in the eye and hissed, ‘Don’t bother. You can’t afford it.’

On her way out, she stopped by the cafeteria, as she always did, just to look, and remember. That cafeteria: her father used to take her and her brother there as a treat, years ago, when she was shy, half-grown, and he was her tiny, rosy-cheeked clown. They would get a hard pastry biscuit and a glass of kvas , and Father would tell them to wait while he went and tried to find light-bulbs, or knickers, or vodka, or whatever else he had not managed to barter or borrow. Petya would sing songs with no words, his chubby hand sticky in hers, his eyes round, trusting. He would sing and sing, happy to be in the warm, happy with his kvas and biscuit. He was always so content. After a while she’d tell him to be quiet. She’d shush him and threaten to take his biscuit. She was trying to be cool, and he was annoying. She should have let him sing. What she wouldn’t give to hear him sing again. What she wouldn’t give to hear him giggle. It had been so long since she’d heard his voice. How she hated kvas and biscuits.

She turned and clattered out of the door, running for the 8A back to the student hostel. The smell of wet dog and the sharp stares of strangers didn’t pierce her bubble. Today, the thought of the hostel, the shared room, the rubbish piled in the kitchens and the crippled kittens trapped in the stairwells did not depress her. The bus, the hostel, university, her awful boss Maria Trushkina at the pharmacy; they were all temporary. She would dig her way out of this.

Ten minutes later she was walking up the drive. Small black windows glowered at her over four storeys, flocks of plastic bags nestling at each windowsill: student ‘refrigerators’, flapping like tethered rooks. She smiled, and wondered if she should allow herself to buy a mini-fridge once she had her new tenant.

As she entered the foyer a hunched, spidery form shot out from behind the concierge desk and clamoured at her, waving a piece of paper over its head.

‘Hey, hey!’ the form shrieked.

‘Elena Dmitrovna, do you have a message for me?’ Polly knew a performance was coming: it always was. She tried not to scowl.

‘Yes I do, and it sounds interesting,’ said a voice like splintered wood.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I see?’

The old lady held the piece of paper to her breast and looked along her nose at Polly. She harrumphed and blew out her cheeks, and then sucked them back in, wincing.

‘Akh, my sciatica!’

‘Ah, I promised you those tablets, didn’t I? I hadn’t forgotten. It’s so busy at the pharmacy at the moment… I have no time to myself. I’ll get them for you. This week. For definite.’ Polly smiled, eyes slithering shut.

Elena Dmitrovna tapped her fingers on the piece of paper clenched between her hands.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Of course!’

‘Very well.’ The old woman handed over the paper and remained standing where she was, blocking Polly’s path to the stairs.

‘Well?’ she said.

Polly read the message in silence.

‘You see! A séance! Interesting! I told you!’ The old lady danced on the spot, the ring of keys at her waist jangling.

Polly rolled her eyes.

‘It was your friend Alla who phoned.’

‘I can see that.’ She took a step to the left. The concierge mirrored her, blocking her path.

‘She sounded like she wants to see you.’

‘Yes.’ She took a step to the right. Again the old lady blocked her.

‘She said she hasn’t seen you for a while.’

‘No—’

‘And she’s been poorly.’

‘Ah?’ Polly nodded and darted around the woman, jumping for the stairs.

‘And your Vladimir telephoned.’

She stopped with her left foot on the second step, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She did not turn around.

‘And?’

‘He thinks you should go to the séance. Said it would be, now what was it… worth your while: yes, that was his exact phrase.’ Elena Dmitrovna retreated to the dimness of her desk and the shabby armchair behind it. ‘Asked you to telephone him as soon as possible.’

Polly kicked the step in front of her and marched back down the stairs for the double doors.

‘We had a bit of a talk. He’s a lovely young man, isn’t he? A doctor! You can phone from here if you like? I promise I won’t listen!’

The old lady’s laugh whistled through her rotten teeth like the wind through the trees as Polly slammed back out of the hostel to find a working pay-phone. How she detested the old.

The grumpy orderly launched dust and noise through the air as the metal strips of the blind hit the top of the frame. Anatoly Borisovich’s eyes, ravaged by time, fluttered open. Morning light pooled on his bedside table, illuminating crayons and sugar paper, almost as if they were real. He squinted and pushed himself upright, his hand drifting towards the paper; a cry of joy escaped him when it bent to his touch.

‘Well, this is quite marvellous!’ he said at last, shaking with anticipation as he stroked the smooth cylinders of the crayons. He could feel the colours without looking: he knew this was blue, this was red, this was yellow. They gave off energy, a frequency that tingled on his fingertips, pulsated up his arm to tickle his heart. He giggled and patted at the bedsheets with excitement.

‘Now these might save my life! Oh, yes!’

‘Are you going to draw us something, then, eh?’ asked the orderly, her back to him as she ladled the buckwheat porridge into a dented aluminium bowl.

‘No, I’m going to eat them!’ replied Anatoly Borisovich with a laugh that erupted from his belly and danced around the room. The orderly sniffed. He apologised and agreed, of course he was going to draw something.

She placed the bowl and a spoon on his bedside table, and snorted.

‘And what are you going to draw, if it’s no secret?’

‘Well, I don’t know, we’ll have to wait and see. When I take up the colours, they will tell me what to draw. It’s impossible to plan… you have to go where they take you.’

‘You could draw that tree.’ The orderly stared out of the window with her hands on her hips. ‘It’s the last one. The rest went rotten.’

‘If all else fails, I could draw that tree,’ Anatoly Borisovich replied as he caressed the yellow crayon, and then the red. ‘Did Vlad get me these? I told him I wanted to draw. It was Vlad, wasn’t it? He understands me…’

‘Vladimir? The student? You must be joking. He’s too busy with that fancy girl of his. Do you know, I caught them at it in the office the other week. He’s obsessed—’ she broke off and straightened her tabard as Anatoly Borisovich stared, open-mouthed. ‘Anyway, Dr Spatchkin got you the crayons: he over-ruled Matron. He thought drawing might help with your confusion. And the nightmares.’

‘Nightmares?’

‘We hear you crying out at night, you know. You make a lot of noise. We have to report it.’ She folded her arms and sighed. ‘I’d say you’ve taken a turn for the worse. You’re off your food again.’ She nodded at the bowl.

Anatoly Borisovich put down the crayons and regarded his porridge with a complete lack of interest. ‘There is nothing wrong with my appetite that reasonable food will not fix.’ The sudden spurt of energy was trickling away. He lay back against the pillows, too tired to move, almost too tired to breathe. She was right about the nightmares.