Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘No!’ Polly shrank into the back of her chair, pinching her nose and grimacing as Alla leant forward to envelop her in a miasma of coal-tar and polyester. ‘It’s only been a month or so, hasn’t it? Not so long. I’ve been busy studying.’

‘Studying?’ echoed Valya loudly, waggling her head like an angry bull. ‘I can’t guess what subject.’ She hissed out a laugh and grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from her handbag, proceeding to shell them expertly between her tongue and teeth, showering husks to the floor.

‘I just wanted… well, to check there were no hard feelings.’ Alla’s voice dropped to a pantomime whisper as she leant further over the table, her breastbone almost touching the tablecloth. ‘You know, about lending you that money…’

Sveta’s cheeks wobbled with interest and Valya inhaled a seed husk as a hush dropped across the salon. Polly glowered into the top of Alla’s bent head, willing her to shut up, as the latter continued, oblivious.

‘And I wanted to talk to you about my stomach. It’s been very bad, and I—’

‘Indeed!’ nodded Polly. ‘Maybe later though? We must concentrate on the spirits now, Alla. Vlad, you couldn’t get me a little vodka, could you darling? I think I have a sore throat coming on.’

Vlad jumped soundlessly to his feet, smiling as if nothing could delight him more. Seven pairs of female eyes followed his progress intently. When he returned, Polly gulped the dose down in one, eyes closed.

Gor observed the girl as he waited. She seemed strangely familiar: that face, the dark eyes and hair, the pale skin with a peppering of freckles, the softly feline smile… but then the stout orange-haired woman with the sunflower seeds also looked familiar. He glanced in her direction, and swiftly looked away.

‘He’s pretending he doesn’t recognise me,’ Valya hissed to Alla, who was now leaning away from Polly in case of infection. She pulled her mouth up close to meet her brows. ‘Not a single hello, not a word. He’s such a snob! He deserves all he gets!’

Zoya, meanwhile, was enjoying Gor from across the table. She had observed him in the street and the library many times, of course. He reminded her of an old piece of bark: brown, knotted, woody, but strong. Tonight, she detected, maybe a little dry rot had set in. Maybe he was a little frayed at the ends.

‘Excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, and those of you who are neither! We are gathered this evening for important work. Our esteemed friend and colleague here, Gor Papasyan,’ Zoya indicated to Gor with a wave of her matchstick hand, ‘a man of substance and good standing—’

‘Substance all right,’ said a voice, with a snigger.

‘Has been experiencing strange occurrences. Occurrences, we could say, that are unexplained, and frightful. Items have been appearing and disappearing, and a headless rabbit, no less, turned up on his doorstep.’

‘But he has cats, surely,’ whispered Alla.

‘Yes, but they are fluffy and white – they never leave the apartment!’ Valya replied.

‘I continue… headless rabbits, and a partially eaten moth sandwich.’

‘Yuck!’ shuddered Valya. ‘But if he ate half of it, why not the other half? Well, you may as well!’

‘Is that paranormal?’ whispered Masha from the Palace of Youth. ‘Eating an insect? Cats do it all the time, after all.’

‘Moths? In a sandwich?’ said Polly slowly, her black eyes wide in her face. ‘I hate moths, don’t you, Mister Papasyan?’

She slid a languorous gaze up the table to where the old man sat. Something about the candle-light captured in her irises sent a shiver up Gor’s spine.

‘Ladies please!’ Zoya croaked. ‘I will continue! Our dear friend… akh…’

‘Sveta,’ said Sveta loudly.

‘Sveta, here, asked me to help. Where there is mystery, Madame Zoya is all. So I said yessssss. Now, Gor,’ she skewered him with a look. ‘You are attracting a deal of negative energy. Therefore, I must ask you: is there anything you need to tell us, before we start?’ Her right eye twitched.

He dragged his eyes to her face, ‘Um, no, Madame, I have nothing to add. You have the facts. There have been bothersome calls, tappings, rappings, hateful letters—’

‘Who from?’ tutted Nastya.

‘Hate-mail!’ exclaimed Valya. ‘It’s always anonymous, chicken-brain!’

‘Maybe he imagined it all?’ suggested Vlad. ‘He is elderly, after all?’

Gor shot him a look overflowing with disdain.

‘Aren’t we all experts?’ said Polly quietly with a smirk.

‘Hush!’ screeched Madame Zoya. ‘Now, Gor, you say we have the facts? Some, at least… But, I meant… you have no secrets?’

‘No.’

‘Hidden tragedies—’

‘Nope.’

‘Love affairs, other indiscretions—’

‘None.’

‘Business failings—’

‘Well really!’

‘—Anything you feel you ought to share before we open up to the spirits, to ease their access this evening?’ Madame took a breath and raised a straggly purple eyebrow in a regal manner.

Quiet descended, thick as porridge. Gor looked at his hands, the lines etched dark with dirt from the dacha , oil from the car, dust from his books and music. ‘No, Madame, there is nothing you need to know.’

Zoya nodded and scratched her head with a dry, scraping sound under the turban. She sighed and tried again. ‘If there is anything you know of in your past that ought to come to light now, in the open, for your own good, and of your own will, would you share it with us, please?’

Gor looked at her, puzzled, and wrinkled his forehead. ‘Madame Zoya, you confuse me. Is there something specific you would like me to admit to at this point? If so, just ask.’ He smiled a taut, humourless smile.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘Of course not! But perhaps you might want to share with us – your friends here – your own family circumstances, for example? Have you ever been married, or had children, for instance?’ It was like pulling teeth, Zoya acknowledged to herself, but less fun. She smiled encouragingly, the edges of her mouth curling like a sandwich left out too long. They grimaced at each other across the shimmering tablecloth.

‘Well now, of course I can enlighten you there.’ Gor drew a breath. Every face around the table turned to him, every nose quivering with anticipation. ‘I was married, once, a long time ago.’

‘Ah-ha?’ Madame Zoya’s smile broadened and she nodded encouragingly. ‘And?’

‘And nothing.’ Gor shrugged, black eyes boring into the table top. ‘She left me. It’s common enough. Will that do?’

‘Well,’ began Zoya, flummoxed by her combatant’s resolve, but refusing to be beaten, ‘that tells us a very little. At least she’s not dead, I assume?’

‘Surely you could tell me that?’ he murmured acidly.

The pursing of Madame’s lips was almost audible. ‘Dearest Gor, I will do my best. But you must trust me first; you must share a little more. Do you have offspring, a wider family perhaps? In Armenia? Or America?’

‘Dearest Madame, I have a daughter, Olga.’ A chorus of gasps echoed around the room. Sveta felt the blood drain from her face. Why had he never mentioned this child? ‘She was a sweet thing, as I recall. Ringlets, pom-poms… She’d be about your age now, a little older perhaps.’ He frowned, flicking his fingers dismissively towards Polly. ‘But I have seen neither her nor her mother for twenty years. She took up with a pastry chef – a high flyer, in the Party hospitality world. They made Moscow their home… the leafy suburbs. Apart from them, and they don’t count, I have very little family. A cousin, in Rostov.’

‘A cousin?’ pressed Zoya.

‘Yes. An artist; an eccentric. We’re not close. I see him once a year, on his birthday—’ Gor broke off, his gaze fixed on the candles. He pulled sharply on his goatee.