Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘Albina, darling, do not be alarmed. I’ve been having a good rest, and everyone has been delightful. This is no place for lipstick!’ Sveta took the bunch of crumpled roses from Albina’s fist. ‘These are lovely, malysh , and so thoughtful. How I’ve missed you!’

‘We’re taking you home today. We’ve decided. And you’ll never guess – we know who is tapping on the windows!’

‘You do?’

‘A human! We saw him last night – standing on the roof with a long stick! I nearly caught him! It was so exciting!’ Albina nodded her head emphatically as Gor approached the end of Sveta’s bed, bag in hand, tea stain down the front of his jerkin.

‘You’ve been on the roof?’ Sveta’s sharp gaze admonished Gor.

‘Ha! Er, yes! It was all quite safe, of course. I oversaw the operation.’ His words flowed hurriedly over her huff of disapproval. ‘The scoundrel got away. We gave him a scare, and possibly an injury. All has been quiet since.’ His face was lit briefly by a crooked smile. ‘I feel almost… But no. How are you, Sveta?’ He took in her dishevelled appearance and pale face. ‘All mended? We need you home, you know.’

‘And I am striving to come home.’ She felt so much better just for seeing them. ‘I have to say,’ she dropped her voice, ‘I don’t like it here. The people are lovely, but there’s an atmosphere. And I’ve had no access to the mini-cinema, not a whiff of a massage. Just thrice-daily visits from the doctor.’

‘Vlad?’ Gor’s eyebrows lowered to hide his eyes. ‘He’s being very attentive—’

‘Not Vlad.’ She pursed her lips. ‘The proper doctor, Dr Spatchkin. He’s very able… and very small. He says I’m fit for home. We just have to speak with Matron. She is very busy, I hear. Can you wait?’ Sveta cocked her head.

‘Ah, yes. As it happens…’ Gor hesitated, bag still in hand, ‘I have to visit Gagarin wing, briefly.’

‘Oh? Ah… To collar Vlad?’ Sveta said, nodding. ‘Quite right.’ She frowned. ‘He hasn’t visited. Perhaps it is guilty conscience? After all, I am only here because of him.’

‘Mmm. I’m hoping he has something more severe than a guilty conscience – a broken ankle, perhaps.’ Gor smiled grimly. ‘We will find out. However,’ he surveyed his feet, ‘there’s something else I need to look into.’

‘Gor’s cousin, Mama!’ said Albina, kicking the floor with her moon-boots and shooting Gor an encouraging look. ‘Can you believe it? We think he’s here!’

‘Your cousin?’

Klara quivered in her bed and muttered into her hands about forty dark loaves.

‘On holiday?’ A bleak light in Gor’s eyes told her the truth. ‘Oh no! He’s a… long-term guest? After what you said about this place!’ Her mouth pulled tight. ‘I am surprised at you!’

‘I didn’t know! It may not be him. I’m not sure!’

‘Well, that’s even worse.’

Gor nodded. ‘Akh, maybe. As far as I knew, he was in Rostov with his paints and his books. He has a good flat there, in the suburbs. I never got a call to say he was here! But I need to find out. Albina will fill you in—’

‘Prove the yeast!’ muttered Klara with urgency. Tatiana Astafievna licked the air, and nodded her head.

‘Very well. Go and do your duty, Gor. Albina and I will wait for Matron, and see if we can get those papers signed off. And you can tell me more about your adventures, baby-kins!’ Sveta caressed Albina’s cheek, and Albina rolled her eyes.

‘I won’t be long,’ Gor stood in the doorway. ‘It’s good to see you, by the way.’ He nodded to the two other ladies and the pinging machine, and headed off back down the corridor.

The reception area was just the same, the girl in the glasses still typing away. She ignored Gor as he hurried past. The corridor to Gagarin wing was just as long, although now there were workmen in it, splashing the walls with green paint that bit at Gor’s eyes. He wished them good day as he strode on. A ghost of scorched plastic still hovered in the air as he crossed Communal Sitting Room No. 2, which was also now green apart from three black scars in the ceiling, where the tiles had melted. He slowed, taking in the marks and thinking of Sveta rushing forward, trying to put out the fire with her hat, not realising there was no one in danger but herself: silly, impulsive, brave.

He thought on the fact that it had taken him several days to come and find out if the terrified inmate were indeed his cousin. He could reason this delay quite easily: the Vim & Vigour indulged in a strict regulation of visitors; he had Albina to care for; work had had to be undertaken at the dacha ; the petrol money was no small matter. Except it wasn’t just these few days, truth be told: there were years before that, dozens of them, stretching way into his past as long as he could remember, when he had actively avoided his cousin. These days were the latest in a long line of days, broken only by the annual visit on Tolya’s birthday for the eating of cake and a compote salute.

And there was the worst of it. He had been so taken up with himself, he had only realised during that ridiculous séance, at the moment when Madame had dug a little deeper into his family vault, that he had forgotten Tolya’s birthday. How had he allowed himself to sink so far? It was the one day when he had to perform a family duty: to make a visit and smile and talk; to show interest. And he had forgotten it.

He cursed himself for a fool and strode towards the door Albina had crept through. All was still. He knocked, waited, coughed, knocked again, and pushed. It opened with a groan. Inside lay darkness, the blinds down.

‘Tolya?’ he began quietly. ‘I think I owe you an apology—’

His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and the words stopped abruptly.

Before him leered the sagging, stained mattress of a stripped bed. He looked around, feeling foolish, and stepped across the room to pull up the blind. Only the dust moved, circling in the air softly, lazily, falling gently on his shoe, an empty beaker, the visitor’s chair, the floor. There were no personal effects.

He returned to the corridor and opened the next door along: maybe he was mistaken. Here was a man with ginger hair and a beard of soft grey, sleeping with his head lolling to one side. Gor retreated, tried the next door, and the next. He tried all the doors along the corridor in turn, refusing to give in to the fear that had bloomed when he saw the empty bed. By the end of the corridor, soft dread was reaching fingers up his throat, stroking the backs of his eyeballs. He blinked away tears. In the last room he found two patients, both awake and chatting, and an orderly who was busy at the blinds.

He intended to wish them good day, to introduce himself, but instead blurted, ‘Where is Tolya?’

The orderly turned very slightly in his direction and frowned, feather duster stilled in her hand. ‘Tolya?’

‘Anatoly Borisovich: he was in the room a few doors up – number 6, I thought? A short man, quite round, and old. Artistic. Nervous. A cake lover. Quiet soul.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the orderly, turning around more fully, her eyes curious under her blue-black beehive. ‘Anatoly Borisovich. Are you a friend of his?’

‘No. That is to say, I’m… his cousin,’ said Gor, adding out of habit, ‘we aren’t close.’

‘In that case,’ said the orderly, ‘you’d better speak to Matron. Go to the office at the end of the corridor and tell them who you are: they will find her for you.’

Gor made to leave, but turned at the door, his face taut.

‘Has he… Has he gone?’ he asked softly, not wanting to hear the answer.

The orderly smiled sadly, over her shoulder.

‘Yes, he’s gone. On Saturday night: quietly and suddenly. No suspicious circumstances. But go and speak to Matron.’