Andrea Bennett: Two Cousins of Azov

Tolya peeled the fingers from his hair with a chuckle. ‘No, no! It’s you who doesn’t understand. You wait! You just wait and see.’ He eased himself up and tottered over to the desk. After rummaging for many moments, he pulled out a small, battered metal box. ‘You’ll see. You’ll see! This is my special treasure. I don’t open it often. It’s magic, you see. I can smell my childhood in this box. My happy times.’ He carried it carefully to where Gor sat. The lid came up with a jerk. He pushed in his hand, turning over yellowed papers, dry pine cones, ancient pressed flowers tied in faded ribbons. He smiled as his fingers closed around something solid.

‘Here is proof, since you won’t believe me. They found it in the ruins, above the stove where I slept. The only thing. Goloshov returned it to me.’

He pulled out a battered, rough wooden spoon. On its handle, in blotchy poker-work, were written the words

Gor stared at the spoon and a chill passed over his skin.

‘Baba told me never to tell. She said he’d be our secret. But I don’t think she’d mind, now.’

When he got home, late that night, Gor took the letter to his daughter from the sideboard, kissed it along the seal, and took it straight down to the little blue postbox on the corner. After it had disappeared through the slot he stood imagining its journey across the wide Russian countryside, speeding from town to town, past coal mines, quarries, metal works and factories, following the crows and the rivers, all the way north to that snowy jewel – Moscow. His fingers lingered on the metal of the box, sensing his letter on the inside. He wished it well.

What would Sveta say about all this? He could hardly wait to tell her. Fluffy snowflakes fell silently from the blue-black sky as he stood. He looked up to feel them on his face. How strange and wonderful, perplexing and precious life was.

That night Tolya was alone in his room. There was no Baba, no Lev with his cold, wet nose and restful tail thump. He’d been scaring himself with stories: the stories that made his heart beat hard in his chest, the stories boys at school told him. He felt the wind rushing in the tree tops even as he lay in his bed, warm as toast, warm as the top of the stove, although a little too soft. He pressed the eiderdown to his face. If he reached out his hand he might feel a hunk of black bread and the lamp. He rolled over carefully, opened his eyes and looked out of the window. His curtains were gone.

Where, at some point, there had been a copse of birch, tussled and bullied by the wind, there now stood a forest. Dark and frost-laden, silent and watchful, it twinkled with the eyes of a thousand creatures nestling in the night-time, taking shelter in its branches. Tolya crossed the room on bare feet and pressed his nose to the glass. It was beautiful.

At the bottom of the trees, on the edge of the clearing, he could see the outline of a figure hovering in the undergrowth, almost transparent. Just the idea of a figure, the impression of a thought. Waiting for him. He turned back into the room and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he should get something to eat. Maybe Baba had left him a sausage. She said food was important, if you couldn’t sleep. He would share it with Lev. Lev would enjoy a sausage: the old dog never got much these days – just left-over porridge and scraps from the bins. Lev would like a sausage. He would look.

tap-tap-tap

He stopped in the middle of the room, hairs rising on his neck.

tap-tap-tap

He screwed up his eyes and crossed his fingers, standing there in the darkness, but the words wouldn’t form on his lips. Where was Stalin anyway? Where was Baba? What was he afraid of? He took a slow, deep breath. He was afraid of nothing.

The forest scent was in his nose, he could taste it on his tongue. He relaxed his hands and stood a long moment, listening to the wind, to the air in his lungs. He opened his eyes, and turned back to the window. Someone was there.

A face gazed at him, hovering in the darkness, almost close enough to touch. He could see every feature. He stepped forward. The eyes flickered strangely, oscillated in their orbits: twin moons shining in a face as pale as milk.

‘Come,’ said Yuri, and his mouth spread into a wide, toothy grin. He tapped on the glass, glowing in the darkness, the long thin fingers twitching. ‘Come, friend. All will be well.’

‘Yuri,’ said Tolya. ‘My friend! Yes, I’m coming now.’

He opened the window.

I’d like to thank Mary Woodrow, Ady Coles, Lucy Du Plessis, Tim Partlett and Liz Moore for their helpful comments on the various drafts of this book. Big thanks to Cassie Browne and Charlotte Cray at Borough Press for their wise advice and patient encouragement when all seemed a bit confused. Also thanks to all at The Prime Writers for mutual support.

As ever, huge thanks to Mick James for his critical eye, good ideas and warm hugs.

And thanks to Louis and Archie, for being Louis and Archie.

As a teenager, Andrea Bennett wanted to be an artist. When that didn’t work out, she decided on academic adventure, and eventually gained a degree in Russian & History from the University of Sheffield. Two Cousins of Azov is her second novel. She lives in Ramsgate, Kent, with her two sons, partner and dog, and divides her time between writing and charity work.

@andreawiderword

Galina Petrovna’s Three-Legged Dog Story

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