Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

‘Akh, Sveta… if you think it is for the best, to stay another night? I will come back tomorrow lunchtime.’ He looked deeply into her eyes.

‘Thank you, Gor.’ She pressed her bandaged hands onto his. ‘Today is a turning point. Just a turning point on your journey. When I am home tomorrow, we will talk it through. We will set you right. And all will be well. But for tonight – rest and sleep. Quiet sleep.’

‘You are so very brave. Thank you, Sveta. Go in now. We can’t have you…’ He did not finish his sentence; the orderly had enveloped Sveta in the blanket.

‘Kalinka, Kalinka, Kalinka, moya, rum-pum, pum-pum…’ Albina whisper-sang as she waggled the paws of the smallest white kitten who lay supine, lost in rapture, gazing into her eyes as if they were stars in its heaven. They sat on the old red-brown rug in the middle of Gor’s living room, the other kittens scattered under the piano, lovingly clawing up the sheet music. This kitten was special. Albina had christened him Ponchik, or Doughnut, because he was so sweet. Her fingers lingered in the silkiness under Ponchik’s chin, and she tickled, laughing as he stretched out his neck, giving himself up to her completely.

She glanced at the clock: still only one p.m. Gor had left her in charge of the kittens: he said the cats could look after themselves. All had been calm, but Gor was not himself. When they had returned late the previous afternoon, he had gone straight to his room, and had stayed there for two hours. She had taken him tea, played with the kittens, and waited. There was no tapping. There were no phone calls. An absolute hush had descended on the flat.

Eventually he’d emerged, worn slippers shuffling on the lino, and cooked up a cutlet for her. He did not eat. They had sat side-by-side on the old yellow sofa, the radio humming in the background, and spent the evening sorting through old photos Gor had tugged from the back of the sideboard. Here was Tolya as a youth, fresh out of military academy, a bemused look on his face as he stood skinny and pale, stiffly holding his diploma. Here was a wedding couple, jolly in a restaurant: Gor dark as ever, but with a light dancing in his eyes, his bride looking both proud and self-conscious. Here was Olga as a toddler, all chubby arms and freckles, playing with a ball at the beach. Here was Olga, a serious, dark-eyed girl, tall and slim with plaits down to her waist, on the first day of term. Here were mother and daughter either side of a wiry, sharp-toothed monkey on a chain. The photos ran out around 1975. Albina told Gor he should put them in a photo album. He had blown his nose and said perhaps, perhaps.

His plan this morning had been the grocer’s and the dairy, and then to motor over and collect Mama, no matter what Matron said.

He said he wouldn’t be long, but he had been ages, and time was dragging, despite the kittens and the radio. Albina was learning that she didn’t like being on her own, although she didn’t like company either. Gor had suggested she go for a healthy walk, but she had laughed. She didn’t like walking. She didn’t really like being outside: people looked at her, and it made her feel stupid.

Her eyes wandered to the glossy, muscular body of the piano. It called to her, and the day was too silent. She pushed herself up from the floor with Ponchik still on her shoulder, his tiny claws curled into the knit of her jumper. Raising the lid, she looked down at the perfect pattern of black and white keys. When Gor had played it, the melody had been immense, cascades of notes spilling out of its body like water from a fountain. He said you had to be careful with grand pianos, especially baby-grand pianos. She reached out and touched the key that was middle C, pressing gently. No sound came. She pressed harder and jumped back as a note rang out, clear and cool. She played her fingers across the keys and listened to the tinkle, the tones dropping and pinging like rain on a pond. She laughed, played louder, pressing keys with her fists, her elbows, her forehead, rolling her hands up and down, to and fro, creating thunder and rainstorms, dew and snowflakes. Ponchik silently mewed for his mother, who slinked nonchalantly past on her way to the kitchen.

Hammering at the front door eventually silenced her playing. She leapt back guiltily from the piano. Was she in trouble for the noise? Should she answer? She returned the kitten to his siblings and trod quietly into the hall. She knew how to handle angry neighbours. She would be firm, and blame the little cats. She would not swear.

‘Hello,’ she said to the door without opening it, her voice bouncing, sounding silly, like a child. She stood on her toes to look through the spy hole, losing her balance and squashing her nose. She couldn’t make anything out. More blows rang out. She struggled with the lock, tangling her hair into it as her fingers slipped. Finally, she pulled it open.

Gor and Sveta arrived home half an hour later after a largely silent car journey. Sveta had tried to begin some jolly chat, but the old man was not ready for it. She was looking forward to getting back. When they arrived, the kittens were asleep in a bundle of old shoes, Dasha and Pericles happy and relaxed lying on the sofa. All was well. But Albina was not there.

Gor stood perplexed in the hall as Sveta scooted from room to room calling her daughter’s name with increasing volume. She returned to him, open-mouthed. Gor’s bag of pryaniki slipped to the floor. They checked the cupboards, behind the doors, under the beds; they even opened windows to look out and call. Perhaps she was on the balcony? Only a deep stillness greeted them there. There was no girl, and no note. After whirling through the flat with increasing fervour, room-to-room-to-room, they stood together in the kitchen, panting, and noticed two cups of tea with a pink flowery pattern standing untouched on the side, next to a half-empty box of sugar cubes.

Sveta swooped on the cups, pressing the back of her hand to one. ‘Warm! Not even sipped! What does this mean?’

Gor shook his head dully. ‘Someone was here?’

‘Two people!’ Sveta nodded. ‘Albina doesn’t like tea!’

‘She does if she’s allowed sugar.’ He smiled sombrely, and stepped forward to taste from each cup. ‘That second one,’ he coughed, ‘Albina’s: sweet enough for bees. Perhaps you should go and check next door – Galina Petrovna on the left, Baba Krychkova on the right. Maybe she’s gone to them? Or left a message? I will investigate here: there will be a note – we must have missed it.’

Gor began another search of the apartment, eyes scavenging the living room, picking apart the ordinary, looking for something wrong. The girl’s things were all still in his former dining room: a tangle of clothes, books and homework, and a dog-eared teddy. Her purse lay abandoned amongst the rubble.

He stood in the hall and scratched his head. Two cups of tea in the kitchen, and not a sip drunk. He returned to stand over them, examining the rims and the ring of brown left on the side by a spillage. He picked up the kitchen cloth to wipe away the mark, and caught a whiff, the shadow of a smell. He sniffed his hands, and then the cloth: yes, it was definitely there, a distinctive medicinal tang pricking his olfactory nerves. He frowned: he’d smelled that smell recently, somewhere else. Was it at the Vim? The nurses? Or maybe Madame Zoya?

He heard steps in the hall and Sveta appeared in the doorway, her worried eyes glassy.

‘They have no news. Baba Krychkova reported hearing the piano being played very loudly, and a banging, which she assumed was a neighbour complaining. Galina Petrovna could offer no help at all – she’s just got in from a dance class. I’ve looked out at the courtyard too: no sign.’