Andrea Bennett - Two Cousins of Azov

Valya and Alla surged into the foyer, sheathed in matching creations of shiny, flower-spattered viscose. Thrilled with their free tickets, they had told everyone who would listen, for two weeks in a row, what a lovely man, and fantastically talented magician, Gor Papasyan was.

‘We went to his séance, didn’t we?’ said Nastya to Alla from the corner of her mouth as they waited to stow their coats. ‘Did anything come of it, do you know?’

‘Well,’ said Valya, leaning in and shaking her head like a terrier with a rabbit, ‘let’s just say it was nothing but a con, as I always said! Smoke and mirrors, nothing more!’

‘But what about Polly?’ pressed Nastya in a stage-whisper, suppressing a grin. ‘There have been rumours! Didn’t she bite the head off a chicken?’

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip!’ snapped Alla loudly. ‘I did my best. I gave her so much support, and what did she do? Theft! Menaces! Kidnap! But no chickens, wool brain. Where did chickens come from?’

‘It was all her! My Vlad was just… just putty in her hands. Her filthy hands! She used him abominably,’ said Valya. ‘He’s still suffering now! Anyway, she’s off for a little correction, and let’s hope she comes back… corrected. Or not at all.’

‘Huh!’ huffed Alla. ‘Her mother’s very cross. Blames me! Might impact on US immigration, apparently.’

Valya pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t know. East, west, home is best.’

‘Exactly.’

‘When are the piglets on?’ asked Valya, squinting at the programme.

Cousin Tolya had been brought by taxi all the way from Rostov. Gazing about him as he took his seat in the front row, he wondered at the babble, the hum, the busyness of it all. It was a long time since he had seen so many people. He had wondered about the noise, but as he sank into the velvet of his seat, he felt a flutter of calm, a murmur of excitement; he liked it. He heard the thousands of words, saw the flashes of smiles, and felt at home. The bag of cake in his lap added to the comforting effect.

‘Eat! Eat and enjoy, Anatoly Borisovich!’ Valya had said as she helped him to his seat.

Life could be magical.

In the foyer, several former bank clerks crowded around Gor, mumbling quietly and shaking his hand in the gloom, making diffident remarks about how fit and slim he looked. He rebuffed their compliments and managed two jokes in the six minutes he gave it before pretending he had business backstage. In fact, he had no business anywhere in the building. So he checked on his cousin and made for the dressing room, for a little meditation before curtain up.

Sveta, meanwhile, was in her element. The programme had been a joy to put together, and the costumes were all that she had hoped for, if not more. Hers had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door for a week, sending tingles up her spine each time she looked at it. Now, she gave a yelp of pleasure as she zipped up the bodice in the honeyed light of the dressing room, the gold sequins sparkling like a sky full of fireworks.

‘Sveta,’ she murmured to the full-length mirror, ‘you are indeed a cracker.’ She blew herself a kiss and carefully hoiked up her fishnets before slinking through the door. She would stand in the wings, feeling the buzz, watching the audience… living the show.

First up there was dancing, supplied by the nimble fairies of Albina’s school. No one was sure who had devised the work, which was, as the audience discovered, an interpretation of ‘the meaning of milk products in modern society, and the life of a cow’. Interesting in the extreme, they had no clear clue as to whom out of the dozen or so dancers was the cow, who was the milk, and who was the butter. It received a standing ovation nonetheless.

Next came Albina. She had worked up her own composition on Gor’s baby-grand, and proudly took to the stage, all notes memorised, with Kopek on her shoulder and a framed photo of Ponchik in place of sheet music. Notes pounced from her fingertips like kittens on teasels and the audience sat, spellbound and afraid to move, as the piano howled and mewed in turn. Sveta wiped away tears of pride when her daughter left the stage.

Bogdan had been unable to supply a Cossack trapeze troupe, and had also failed to come through with the piglets pushing cats in prams. What Sveta had managed to bag, however, was Rollick, the King Singing Billy Goat. A hush descended across the auditorium as Rollick bleated the opening bars to ‘Moscow Nights’, followed by a snatch of the national anthem, and finally the rousing and almost recognisable chorus of ‘Kalinka’. The goat brought the house down and fans showered the stage with flowers, many of which he promptly ate.

‘Ah, Mama! Perhaps we could get a goat! It could live at Gor’s dacha , and I could teach it to duet with Kopek!’

‘Yes, malysh , that’s a fine idea. Let’s talk about it later.’ Sveta was dancing on the spot; nerves were getting the better of her.

Finally, it was time for magic. They took to the stage: Grand Master Papasyan and Sveta, his Magical Mistress. The old man, dressed in a suit of dark green wool with a ruby bow-tie at his throat, was confident, assured, mysterious and kindly. He grinned at the front row, and waggled his ears. Sveta concentrated on sophistication meanwhile, her arms and legs slow and graceful, her smile poised. She ignored the ostrich feathers sticking to her lipstick.

They began with card tricks, picking audience members to join them on stage, then progressed to scarves which appeared out of a hat or Sveta’s ear. Next came flags, knotted and un-knotted, and balls that appeared under the cup you least expected. Nothing was dropped; not a thing got stuck. The audience gasped as the magical cabinet was wheeled onto the stage. It glistened, caramel varnish liquid under the lights. They had practised the illusion many times, but still, as Sveta lay back in the cabinet, her thoughts returned to the first time she had met Gor, not so very long ago. She remembered how frightened she had been, how everything seemed strange. Now he took up his saw and bent over her, and she smiled. All was vibration and illusion. The lights pulsed and she heard the audience release a communal ‘aahhh!’ When she was invited to, she wiggled her toes inside their fishnet stockings. The audience gasped anew, and Sveta giggled.

Small children lined the foot of the stage to pass up sweet-smelling waves of bouquets and boxed chocolate. Sveta curtseyed, blowing kisses to the balcony. This was what she had been looking for when she answered Gor’s advert. This was the spark that had been missing from her life. She floated back to the dressing room, arms heavy with gifts.

‘I cannot thank you enough!’ said Gor, his long face bent into a smile as he hurried back from the box office. ‘I have checked the figures, and, indeed, my debt is cleared! We can also make a donation to the orphanage. You are an angel! You have rescued me: you have salvaged my life! I can never repay you.’

He took her hand, bent low and pressed it to his lips.

‘Ah Gor, it was a pleasure! You were wonderful tonight, I have to say. I’d love to… to do it all again!’

She gazed into his eyes.

‘You… you, of course, were marvellous too: the perfect assistant! A vision of loveliness, combined with an aura of mystery and, um… well…’

He still held her hand. She went to pull it from his grip, but his fingers held her wrist. He coughed, pulled out a spotted silk handkerchief with his free hand, mopped his brow, and returned it to his breast pocket.

‘Sveta, I was wondering, well…’ he straightened and his huge, dark eyes flickered around the ceiling, the steamed-up windows, the feathers at her neck ‘… whether we should consider… becoming… becoming a couple. I mean, alongside the magic. Not just a double act: I mean, as far as our social dealings go. You know. I feel, I mean, I get the impression, you are eager for a mate in life, and I, well, although I am older, I wondered—’