Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

She had not lied when she told Gor she’d made her acrobat go. She had no regrets. But she needed a teaspoon of the extraordinary: a chance to be brave and to feel mystery, whether it lay in the bottom of a teacup, flitted around a candle, or was secured in a magical cabinet.

She dotted powder on her nose as Albina rained blows on the door. Tuesday’s rehearsal had been very strange. Firstly, Gor had telephoned her in the middle of the afternoon to remind her of their appointment, something that was clearly unnecessary. Secondly, he had insisted on staying on the line for a further ten minutes to lecture her on the drought in Central Asia, while she was in the middle of trying to set her hair. And thirdly, when she’d actually arrived, he’d been by turn aloof and excitable, rushing from one trick to the next, from room to room, darting between the lights and the props, hands shaking. There had even been a flush of colour in his cheeks, at times. Strangest of all though, he’d attempted to smile – a number of times. She didn’t yet know Gor like a brother, but she knew him well enough – smiling was a bad sign. She had been tempted to telephone him in the intervening days, just to check that he was alive. But he was unlikely to answer the telephone, or even the door. She dearly hoped Madame Zoya would be able to give him the comfort he needed tonight.

She opened the bathroom door.

‘I don’t know why you bother with that lipstick, Mama. You still look old,’ the girl smirked, pushing past to take her place before the mirror.

‘Albina, that isn’t kind. I am forty-three, and I look forty-three, that is all.’

‘You look old. Look at me! I’m young and… and…’ Albina regarded her body, twisting and turning in the mirror. ‘And… fat!’ She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and puffed her cheeks. ‘You feed me the wrong food, Mama. You’re making me fat. We should have Danish yoghurt every day! Why don’t we have Danish yoghurt? That’s what the other girls have.’

Sveta smiled as she walked towards the bedroom. ‘We don’t need imported food. Those yoghurts are full of chemicals. And think about the kilometres they have to come.’

‘You’re so old fashioned!’ Albina followed her from the bathroom. ‘Just because it’s imported, it doesn’t mean it’s bad.’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean it’s good either, malysh . When I was little—’

‘Boring!’ bellowed Albina, ‘Boring, boring! Why are you always talking about you ? You don’t care about me at all! You won’t even buy me yoghurt!’ She stomped from the room, feet thudding on the parquet as she headed for her lair. ‘You won’t buy me anything!’ she added, slamming her door.

Sveta looked after the girl and breathed out slowly. She hadn’t thought having a daughter would be like this. She could dimly remember her daydreams from before Albina was born: she’d envisaged a companion, with similar tastes, who would help with the cooking, go to dance lessons, enjoy the poetry of Pushkin and the pop of Alla Pugachova. Someone who would cherish her, and read to her in the evenings. Not someone who would teach a parakeet to swear. She smiled and wriggled into her slip, patting it down this way and that. You never knew what you were going to get. That was half the fun.

She renewed her lipstick for luck, and went to the hallway for her galoshes. She could make out Kopek saying something disgusting and her daughter humming a TV jingle for processed cheese.

‘I’ll see you later, sweet-ums!’ she called out. ‘Auntie Vera from next door will be here at seven, so not long to wait. Make sure you take your bath.’

Albina’s head poked through her doorway at the end of the corridor. Kopek was sitting in her hair. ‘Tell Mister Papasyan… tell him I hope he feels better.’

Madame Zoya’s apartment sprawled on the top floor of one of Azov’s oldest buildings, right in the town centre. The four flights of stairs up to it were wooden, steep and uneven. Sveta passed bricked-up doorways, crooked nooks and niches, and the banisters themselves resembled sinewed, twisting snakes. She puffed, cursing the slip that stuck to her tights, threatening to bind her legs as she moved, and her hand trembled as she pressed the perished buzzer of Flat 13. After a long wait, silent but for her panting, the door opened a crack.

‘What business?’

‘The spirits!’

The door creaked open a few centimetres. Before her in the half-light stood a tiny, wizened woman, her puny body entirely swathed in shiny purple, including her head, where perched an attempt at a turban. It sat upon her strangely solid hair like a purple hen on a blue-black nest. Piercing black eyes, accentuated by a smudge of violet eye-liner, peered out around a long, sharp nose.

‘Madame Zoya.’ Sveta took a little curtsey. ‘Thank you for arranging this.’

The eyes crawled over Sveta. There was a grunt and a yawn, and the head craned forward, the light from the stairwell throwing its contours into sharp relief: a face ancient and creviced, like Mount Elbrus. ‘My dear, my dear… erm, dearest. I have just woken from my preparatory nap. Who are you?’

Sveta’s cheeks wobbled with confused indignation as she introduced herself, adding, ‘I am with Gor Papasyan, of course. You recall? We spoke on the telephone. We have met many times before, Madame.’

‘Of course! I recall everything, child, there’s no need to explain. It is an honour to be of assistance to the gentleman, and indeed, your good self. I have heard so much about the gentleman – at the library, in the theatre, when I go to collect my pension, and of course at the Elderly Club. Sadly, he is not a member. I am thrilled, I must tell you. He is of a more interesting quality than most I get around my table.’ She cackled, and paused, head snapping from side to side, her hen-turban quivering. ‘Where is he, anyway?’

‘He is making his own way here, Madame. I did offer a lift, but he wanted to be alone.’ She leant forward. ‘It is his pride, I think. You’ll have heard about his pride?’

‘Yes, and I hear he keeps himself to himself.’ She crinkled the corner of an eye at Sveta, holding wide the door. ‘Come in, child, and make yourself comfortable. I am expecting a crowd tonight. Oh yes, everyone wants to know what is troubling our mysterious Armenian. I think they’re interested in his money, to be frank. There are stories of gold. You know he was a bank manager?’

Sveta’s previous contact with Zoya was limited to a series of unsuccessful try-outs at the Amateur Dramatics Society, and various psychics’ meetings at a friend’s house, where the lady sometimes turned up and scared them all to death. Being received in the doyenne’s dominion gave her a frisson of excitement. She was led into the salon, large and high-ceilinged, with long, curtained windows all across one wall. Her first impression – that it was impossibly dark, over-filled with furnishings of every era and studded with horrifically stuffed animals – was swiftly overtaken by the smell. The air that hung between those ancient walls was heavy with incense, rich tobacco and a noxious spirit: rum, perhaps. It smelled like the kind of place where things happened. Sveta’s hands were clammy with excitement.

Zoya hopped around the room, her spidery fingers rearranging half-full ashtrays and ugly ornaments. ‘I need to concentrate!’ She stopped to sniff at a half-smoked cigar. ‘Ah! Yes, I am recalling.’ Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Our cast of characters: here’s the run-down: we’ve got Alla from the White Flamingo – she’s poor at channelling energy, a bit floppy all round, but she gives me discounts on rum, so it’s a benefit to have her. And there’s Masha from the Palace of Youth – she’s very keen on dance and men; but then, aren’t we all?’ She stopped to wheeze. ‘Then there’s Nastya from the library, who has a thing for elderly folk: she’s quite nosey, fairly experienced and… erm, hang on.’ She lit the cigar and puffed a smoke ring into the air. Sveta coughed. ‘Where did we get to? Oh yes, of course! There’s Valya, from the bank. She is a sceptic, but she frightens easily. She’s been coming for a while. Her husband passed away but he won’t talk to her. Now…’ She fixed Sveta with a bright black eye. ‘Valya will be bringing her lodger, the handsome Vlad – he’s a medical student, works at the sanatorium. He’s new. Came round the other evening to introduce himself: helped out with some DIY – I have to check new sitters’ credentials, you see. He was most helpful… really quite delicious.’ She shut her eyes and pouted. ‘And he’s bringing Polly. She’s a friend of Alla’s… sort of. Troubled background, she’s been once before, but… we’d best not… She’s a medical student also, works in a pharmacy – good for supplies!’ Zoya cackled, cigar smoke erupting from her mouth and rising lazily to the ochre ceiling.