Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘Come, we must go home.’ Gor’s boots echoed on the concrete steps. ‘You will be needing some milk and biscuits.’

Still the girl stood looking down the corridor. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Don’t be alarmed, Albina: your mama will soon be well, and I’m sure this place isn’t as bad as it seems.’

Albina’s chin was on her chest. ‘That old man…’

‘What old man?’ Gor waited as she caught him up.

‘In the room. He was creepy!’

‘What do you mean? I’m sure he was just an elderly guest, left here to rot by his family.’

‘You didn’t see him.’

‘And what could be so creepy, Albina?’ Gor’s whiskers twitched. He found Albina’s penchant for melodrama wearing.

‘He was standing with his eyes shut and his fingers crossed, as if he was praying or something!’

‘That’s not how you pray, Albina.’

‘He was praying to Stalin, though!’

Gor stood still on the bottom step.

‘What do you mean, child?’

‘He was standing with his fingers crossed and eyes closed saying “Comrade Stalin, protect me!” – over and over.’ Albina mimicked the scene.

‘But that’s… impossible.’ He stared at her open-mouthed for a moment, then shook himself and hurried on down the stairs. ‘No, no! It can’t be. Come, Albina, time to get home. Enough for today. Enough!’

The girl gave Gor a long sideways look. His voice was too loud, the pitch too high, and his tight-skinned face was glowing pale yellow. It was almost as if he was scared. As they hurried down the last few steps, her hand slipped into his. He glanced down, and then, without slowing his pace, turned to look back up the way they had come.

‘There’s no one there,’ said Albina.

ping-ping-ping

The alarm on his Tag-Heuer had gone off at least half an hour ago. He’d put it on snooze, couldn’t work out how to turn it off entirely. Now it pinged every few minutes. He’d set it so he would know exactly when she began to be late, and now it reminded him, endlessly: she was not there; she had not come.

He sat alone, twirling a spoon in his empty cup, long legs tucked uncomfortably under the warped plywood table. His thigh twitched and his heel bounced on the floor. The sugar shivered in the bowl. He knew the girl behind the counter was looking at him. She was pretty, but he wasn’t in the mood. Why hadn’t Polly come?

Polly, who had taken his breath away, stolen his soul: so unexpected, so exciting, so other. Here was someone who didn’t giggle or simper, or pretend to be stupid: she was powerful, animal. Her intent had pinned him down, and he had been content to be contained by her, forever, he had thought.

It had started late in August, as the flies died and the sun steamed. He’d been watching girls as they filtered into the hall, sun-kissed, newly shod, a brood of horny hens. Something had made him turn his head and look into the shadows opposite.

She was tall, athletic looking: a high-school runner or a floor gymnast. Standing on her own as the other girls giggled and chatted, she looked as if she couldn’t hear them – as if they weren’t there. She had stared across the hall as though the only thing she could see was – him.

He had glanced down at the notepad, the forms he was supposed to be filling, empty spaces littering the page. When he looked up she was there, sliding down beside him into the faded plastic chair. He looked into her face, a surprised smile on his lips.

Without looking at him, she reached out a long-fingered hand and took a tab of his chewing gum, throwing it into her mouth.

He shifted in his seat, the joints cracking, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked in a cool voice, still looking straight ahead, before he could start.

‘Vladimir. People call me Vova.’

‘I will call you… Vlad.’

‘Oh, you will, will you?’ Still he smiled but his eyes were puzzled.

She turned her head and raised a fine, dark eyebrow, then looked away.

‘And you are?’

‘Polina. You’ll call me Polly.’

‘Are you a second year?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t recognise you.’

She popped the gum in her cheek. ‘I took a year out. Family problems.’

‘Ah. All happy now?’

Her lips twitched. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you like my gum?’

‘Yes.’

She turned to him. There was no make-up on that face, and her hair hung long down her back. Her cheekbones were broad, the nose small, scattered with golden freckles, but it was her eyes, those dark, curving eyes… by turn frank, otherworldly, motherly, blank, that fascinated him.

‘Where’s your work placement?’ she asked.

‘Vim & Vigour sanatorium – care wing. Worst luck. Lots of geriatrics. And you?’

‘Pharmacy No. 2, Azov town centre.’

‘A pharmacy? You won’t get much practical there.’

A cloud passed across the eyes.

‘I’ve been there all summer already. I don’t think they like me.’ She nodded towards the table at the top of the hall where a clump of administrators argued over sheaves of paper and rubber stamps. ‘But never mind.’

‘Don’t take it personally. It’s only for a short while.’ He observed her thighs under her short summer skirt. ‘And what do you like, Polly, besides being a medical student – and my gum? Music? Dancing? Ice-cream?’

She turned to study him, her head on one side.

‘Come here: I’ll whisper it to you.’ A lock of hair fell over her brow.

He had leant forward, and closed his eyes to listen. When he opened them, nothing could be the same.

At each lecture on the ‘Advanced Years’ course they sat, thigh pressed against thigh, strolling through the decay of old age, words about dementia and tissue degradation flitting around their heads like butterflies. They learnt what it was to age, and together they laughed at it, disdained it, rejected it, enraptured by their youth. Those sad stories with forgotten endings would never be for them.

ping-ping-ping

Time had done strange things since they had met: lectures could take a lifetime, each breath a slow, sweet torture. Each night without her was an endless death. How he writhed. Valya had noticed; she’d sat him down and tried to have a word: ‘Don’t take on so,’ she’d said. ‘She’s just a girl. It’s just a romance. What do you know of her? Go to a few dances, watch a film, play football with the lads.’ She hadn’t understood. He didn’t want to know about her family, her pets, her previous boyfriends or her favourite reads. He didn’t want the distraction. He just wanted to touch her.

He’d never had a girl like this: instantaneous and wild, making love in the dusty grass on the river-bank or in the clattering store cupboard at work. Sometimes he felt too exhausted to get up in the morning, too exhausted to sleep, eaten up as flames twitched from his groin into his belly and his blood sang with desire. He was ravenous, but unable to eat. He’d wanted Polly to devour him entirely and spit out his husk. If only life could be as simple as sex.

ping-ping-ping

That night, back in early September, he’d been on lates, still nervous and new at the Vim, trying to please, being responsible. She’d thrown a stone at the office window, giggled up, and then climbed right through when he’d opened it. He’d been scared and thrilled. Wordlessly, she’d locked the office door, sat before him on the desk in her mini-skirt and stockings and slowly undone the buttons of his shirt. He’d wanted to say stop, but didn’t really want to say stop. She hadn’t stopped.

ping-ping-ping

And when he’d fallen asleep, she’d gone through the patients’ files. That hadn’t really worried him at first. After all, she was studying with him, and it was only natural, he told himself, that she should be interested. The pharmacy, after all, didn’t give her much opportunity for practical work. He’d put it to the back of his mind. But then she’d told him about taking the old man’s key.