Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Andrea Bennett 2017

Cover design & illustration Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Buildings © Shutterstock.com

Andrea Bennett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008159573

Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780008159566

Version: 2017-05-10

Dedication

For Mum and Dad

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The Disappearing Egg

A Mothy Mouthful

Tolya Talks

A Study in Bisection

A Shiver in the Trees

The Palace of Youth

Sveta’s Acrobat

Open Flame

Dill and Doughnuts

You Can’t Pickle Love

The Princess

Colours and Crayons

My Name Is Sveta

Zoya Asks the Spirits

Suspicion

The Ideas Incubator

Super Rush

Between Pink Sheets

The Kindly Orderly

A Subdued Troika

Vim and Vigour

Ice-Cream

Moonlight

Muddy Goings on

A Splash of Zelenka

Albina Gives Chase

Funny Pills

Visiting Time

A Windswept Place

A Disappearing Girl

The Broken Adonis

Cuckoo!

A Long Journey

Pryaniki for Tea

Special Measures

Not Dead

The Big Show

A New Year Glimmers

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Andrea Bennett

About the Publisher

The Disappearing Egg

A fortnight after the rabbit incident, Gor was standing at the table in his kitchen waiting for water to boil for his lunchtime egg, and scratching his head with a thoroughly chewed pencil. The crossword before him lay unresolved, the fluffy white cat at his feet virtually ignored. The egg nestled, still cold, in his palm. He was distracted, gazing out of the window with unseeing eyes, the gloominess of his inner thoughts reflected in their murky depths. A dog howled. A crow cawed. He shuddered, brows drawing tight. Perhaps he should fetch his jerkin?

This was it: autumn was moving in all around him – its bags unpacked, its toothbrush already in the glass above the basin. The daylight that splashed across his thin canvas slippers held an unhealthy pallor. He sniffed: the essence of the rain-washed ground was percolating the walls. A chill would not do. He was letting himself go. The pencil dropped to the table and he strode from the room. He would unearth his autumn slippers a few weeks earlier than usual, and gain a drop of solace from mildly cosy toes.

Gor did not mind autumn so much. He was not sentimental about the seasons, and neither missed them nor anticipated their return. Each dawn came later, and the days seemed worn out, fading to dusk before the birds had finished singing. This put a strain on his light-bulb supply, but it rarely strained his nerves. Autumn was a quick and mucky deal, transforming summer’s dust to cold dirt within a matter of weeks. The alchemy hinged on a drop of three degrees and some extra millimetres of rain. But it was just the cycle of life. It was good to be rid of summer’s heat, Gor muttered to himself. The humidity had been stifling, especially at night.

Sometimes, tossing and turning in the fug of summer’s stillness, he had the strangest feeling, as if he were in the wrong place, and were the wrong kind of creature. It was a different sense, not hearing or taste or smell, but a physical memory, printed in his bones. He almost felt he had wings; could feel them unfurling from his back, the effortless rise and fall as he swooped above the earth. He sensed he should be someone else. It made his stomach contract, like a long-forgotten promise: yes, I will be good; yes, I will be true. It made him yearn to nest somewhere high and stony, bone-dry.

Perhaps it was his Armenian roots finally tugging him back to the landscapes of his forefathers. The southern Russian town of Azov, his current domicile, was not his natural habitat, after all. It sweated or shivered on windy, salt-marsh flats where the mighty River Don emptied into the shallow Azov Sea. From the top of the ancient ramparts, you could see the water glisten and heave in the distance under a fierce sky, while Azov steamed under a cloud of midges. And Armenia itself had nothing to do with the sea, sitting noble and remote, glorious and resplendent in separateness, its barricades the mountains that rose up on each side, while its sinuous back arched to heaven, veined with dusty roads that twisted into the very sky.

He sat in the hall, rummaged in the shoe box and eventually tugged on the autumn slippers, their leather outers shiny with age, the inners enveloping his soles in the softest lamb’s wool.

Maybe one day he would return to the land of his ancestors, well, one half of them, and sit on an Armenian mountain. He would mark out the spot with his graphite eye where a tree would be planted in a pebble-strewn valley. On a stretch of flat earth by that tree, he would fashion an Armenian house, with high brown walls and elegant arched windows. He would grow vines and till that difficult soil to bring about a richness of fruits, juicing the earth.

But then again, maybe not. He had visited the country only once, in his youth, to meet strange, distant relatives and see what he was missing. He had enjoyed the trip, as far as he recalled, but had never made the journey back despite his intentions. Life had got serious, and his priorities had changed. Take his career at the bank, for instance. It had flourished quickly, weaving roots that would keep him firmly embedded in the local soil. And now, many of those he had met would no longer be walking souls: they were probably buried under the trees in the valley, resting in that dry, sandy earth. For him, time was getting late to be building a house and learning a new language.

He sighed and returned to the kitchen, the bold figures of the wall calendar catching his eye, smirking at him as Pericles twisted at his ankles. A timid X marked that first Friday in September, when he had made his move and taken fate into his own hands. A deeper slash of an X denoted the day, two weeks later, when things had gone very wrong. Now, he stood before the calendar, tugging hard on his goatee beard and, with a frown, took the pencil to mark another X four days after that. The date of the rabbit incident. The day he met Sveta.

He shuddered, despite the lamb’s wool slippers, and realised he had been ignoring both the crossword and the egg. He could not abide a dry egg. He went to remove it from the pan and stopped short, mouth dropping open. The pan was empty, boiling away merrily to itself with no sign of an egg in it at all. But he had put the egg in there just moments ago, before going into the hall. He had heard it gently boiling away! He was sure his fingertips still felt cold where they had rested on its smooth, hard surface. He looked around, feeling stupid: where could it have gone? Pericles opened an eye and observed his master probing the oven, the cabinet, the larder, the empty biscuit jar, all the cupboards: all for nothing. There was no egg. Gor’s eyes strayed up to the light fittings and down to the floor, not searching, but wandering. He stood motionless and unsure of himself, staring into the pan of boiling water as it giggled back at him, winking.

What was going on? Things did not just disappear. There must be a logical explanation. He opened the heavy fridge door: yes, there was the egg container, and there was the space left by the egg he had removed precisely six minutes before, or a little longer, come to think of it. Tuesday’s egg was definitely gone. He slammed the fridge with more force than was necessary and shut off the gas under the pan. He didn’t care for this at all.

The last thing he could afford was the loss of a nutritious egg. To hell with it: he’d just have to have tea with a piece of buttered bread. After all, he’d survived without eggs before, and much besides, although admittedly a long time ago, back in Siberia. He was about to sit down to his meagre luncheon when the telephone changed his plans with a harsh and repeated bleeping. He hesitated, buttered bread in hand, wondering who it might be. Still it bleeped. He hurried out into the hall.

‘Good day!’ he pronounced grimly, his deep voice booming off the walls.

His bass was answered by a slightly scratchy contralto. ‘Ah, Gor! It is I … Sveta.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He winced and swallowed a sigh, relaxing minutely against the wall. ‘How may I help you?’

‘We have a rehearsal shortly at your apartment, if I am not mistaken?’ She did not pause, despite the implied question. ‘However, I have to say Albina, my daughter, you remember? Well, she is really not at all well, and I have had to keep her home from school. I cannot leave her, obviously.’ Gor’s chest heaved with inaudible relief as the idea settled into his mind that Sveta was about to cancel their rehearsal. ‘But I was wondering …’ she continued, in a more intimate tone, ‘I would hate to miss the rehearsal, when we’ve just started, so do you think you could come to my apartment, and we could do it here instead? Albina will be very well behaved. She has promised.’

Gor’s black eyebrows locked for a moment and he chewed on his cheek, surprised by Sveta’s determination, and also disappointed by it, truth be told. ‘If there is no other option, Sveta, we will have to do what we can. I can come to your apartment, if it is absolutely necessary: that is, if you think I should.’ The woman did not detect his lack of enthusiasm, and thanked him for his flexibility before ringing off with a contrived tinkle of a laugh.

He had noted her address on the first piece of paper that had come to hand; the bank statement of the Rostov Regional Magic Circle. How he wished he’d never become treasurer. He chewed on his cheek as he stalked back to the kitchen to tidy, and fret.

Today, the convoluted tricks and the cabinet of magic, once his diversion of choice, held zero appeal. He felt tired, uninspired; preoccupied, perhaps. He coveted time to himself, to play the piano and ruminate on these problems of his disappearing memory, the strangeness of life, his burgeoning conscience, and the piles of doubt surrounding him, reaching to the ceiling, sometimes crowding out the daylight.

He did not sleep. The hands that combed through his hair sometimes shook. Odd events had been occurring, and it wasn’t just the stupid egg or the hideous rabbit. An afternoon at the baby-grand might give him peace to sort through his thoughts. An afternoon with Sveta surely would not.

As he came to the doorway, humming softly to himself, a movement in the window drew his glance. He looked up automatically, expecting to see a pigeon wing, or scrappy paper in the wind. Instead, to his astonishment, he glimpsed the imprint of a face, features clouded by the steam that clung to the cold glass, but definitely a human countenance – just hanging there, peering in – four floors up. He froze, dumbfounded as the face faded into the clouds, and then dashed over to the window. The hinges scraped as he pushed the frame and craned his head out and down, raking the view. There was nothing to see: no human, no bird, nothing at all except an empty wash of sky and the pitted courtyard below. Somewhere a dog barked, and a door slammed. Leaves fell to earth from a skinny silver birch. He stood, panting into the cold, damp air, watching his steam dissipate and waiting for his breath to slow to normal. When it did, he rubbed a bony hand across the cavities of his great, dark eyes, and shut the window.

Returning to his bedroom, he stood at the mirror for a long time. Was he sick? Was he losing his grip? He looked the same as before: there was no sign of dementia or confusion in his face. But then, what did they look like?

He held out his hands: they were solid, strong, ready for work. He could stand up tall and straight. He remembered everything he had done so far that day, and he absolutely knew what day it was, what year, where he stood and what he should be doing. He grimaced at his reflection. What he should be doing, he acknowledged, was packing the car with props and going over to Sveta’s.

There was nothing to be done: he must carry on as normal. He shrugged his shoulders, and pulled on his jerkin.

A Mothy Mouthful

Once Gor’s little tea-chest car had been loaded up with his basic prop requirements, the short drive out to Sveta’s presented no problems. He switched on the radio, enjoying the heavy thunk of the solid black buttons as he progressed through the stations, searching for something mellow, wordless and reassuring. He eventually fixed on Rachmaninov, the notes bubbling in his blood like oxygen as he navigated massive pot-holes and waved with a swift, jerking movement to the newspaper seller on the corner – a man whose name he did not know, but who was a staple of his day. Later he would stop and buy a paper, and exchange nods and worldly wise shakes of the head: this he knew. He passed through the main square, bustling and full of business, and saluted the traffic policeman keeping order at the crossroads. He crossed the metal bridge over the River Don and drove on towards the newer side of town, increasing his speed as the road, if not the tarmac, broadened. He eased around a couple of rights and a left, past encampments of kiosks and packs of shaggy, mud-encrusted dogs, and set about the artful business of hunting down the correct boulevard, corpus, building and flat number for Sveta.

Despite the Rachmaninov and the wide, sweeping road, his thoughts dwelt on his new assistant. He was not sure she would do. Gor had not practised as a magician for a number of years, but his previous experience was relevant: he had the right demeanour, and a fitting temperament; he could be mysterious, and instil belief. If required, he could take the audience with him on a journey that could confound and perplex. In his own estimation, he was a master, if very rusty. But this Sveta: could she ever be an effective foil? If they were laughed off the stage he would get no further bookings, and if they simply weren’t very good, well, the bookings would be unpaid. And that would be bad news. Indeed, he nodded grimly to himself, the pay was the whole point.

A cloud of steam hissed from a pipe by the roadside, and Sveta evaporated from his thoughts, replaced by recollections of the empty pan, and the steamy face. Had it been real, or a hallucination? Were his nerves really that bad? Maybe neither he nor Sveta belonged on the stage. Maybe he should forget his plan. Would he really be able to confound and perplex and command a paying audience, if he couldn’t successfully boil an egg? Did people these days even want magic? What with their pop music, private enterprise and foreign holidays … He rubbed his chin and nodded as her building came into view, allowing himself a quick ‘rum-pum-pum-pah’ along with Rachmaninov to raise his spirits.

When Sveta opened the door to Flat 8, Building 4, Corpus 6 on Turgenev Boulevard, Gor was taken aback to see that the apartment behind her was entirely in darkness. She looked dishevelled compared to previous weeks, her blonde hair puffy and tufted around her hamster-like cheeks, and her make-up smudged. They stood facing each other, him nodding good day and she seemingly frozen.

‘Good—’ Gor began and was immediately quelled with a ‘sssh!’ that rattled his bones. ‘What is it, Sveta? Is something wrong?’ he whispered, still standing in the doorway.

‘Quietly, Gor! As I told you, my little girl is sick today. She must have absolute quiet. She is … she is a highly strung girl, and suffers, you understand?’

Gor thought he did not understand, and frowned. ‘I have to get my things from the car. That will, I am sure, make a little noise, but I will be as careful—’

‘Oh no! You must not bring the magical cabinet into the apartment! No, no, that would be too much! The noise and excitement! We must just rehearse, as if we had it with us. No equipment, thank you.’

‘Make believe, Sveta? I am not convinced. Maybe we need to have a talk.’ He raised his eyebrows. Still Sveta stood in the doorway, stepping uneasily from one swollen, slippered foot to the other, not inviting him in. The warm smell of the apartment rolled into his nostrils: furniture polish and something edible – gravy, perhaps.

He cleared his throat. ‘May I?’

‘Oh, of course, of course, come in, how silly of me!’ She stood away from the door and flicked the light switch. A blowsy ceiling lamp trickled pinkish light along the narrow hallway. ‘Please, take off your shoes! Here we are, some slippers – for men!’ Sveta, her face beaming in a way that made Gor uncomfortable, handed him a pair of navy suede slippers with grubby woollen insides. He had the impression they had been waiting a long time for a suitable pair of feet, although they were not particularly dusty, and gave no home to spiders. There was something about them that reminded him of the pleasure boats down on the river: abandoned.

She bade him sit on the bench by the telephone table to remove his shoes, and stood over him as he did so. She repeatedly glanced down the corridor to a room at the end, where a door lay ajar. He guessed the daughter must be occupying that wing, and must be suffering: her mama was clearly anxious. Perhaps he should have brought melon.

As he pulled on the second slipper he heard a flapping, followed by a whistle of wings through the air. He raised his head as an avian screech rang out, followed by what sounded like a series of muffled oaths, deep within the apartment. Sveta giggled, her fist pressed into her mouth, pushing down on her small, receding chin. She turned to him.

‘That’s Kopek, our parakeet. Albina loves him, and she’s teaching him to talk. I think Albina has a special relationship with animals – an affinity, I think it’s called,’ she confided with an air of pride.

Gor raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The bird had sounded as if it were in pain. The screeches continued, becoming louder and more insistent, and then interspersed with a series of thuds that made the light fittings rattle. Gor and Sveta looked at each other. The latter dropped her smile, sighed and pursed her lips.

‘Just one moment,’ she said, raising a lone index finger into his face before hurrying down the corridor and through the open door at the end, pulling it closed behind her.

‘Be my guest,’ he murmured to himself.

He turned to the bookcase as he waited, perusing the familiar titles and shaking his head occasionally. Scratchy sibilants hissed from the door at the far end of the hall, followed by a storm of shushing. He hunched his shoulders into his ears as the unfortunate bird continued squawking. He dropped the book in his hand – The Mother, by Maxim Gorky – and leapt inches into the air when the mysterious door clattered open and a shrieking girl-cum-devil came dashing into the corridor. A round, pink face framed rolling marble eyes under ropes of hair, fixed into pigtails by two enormous shaggy pom-poms, which flew fiercely about her. She was laughing. Or crying. He wasn’t sure. She was definitely running – towards him.

The shrieking noise the girl was making morphed into an extended ‘ahhhh!’ of terror as her foot caught in the edge of the runner and she started to tumble. In that moment, as she sought to regain her balance, she reminded Gor of a bear cub in a hunter’s trap: her half-grown body out of her control, its constituent parts flailing around her haunches, the fore-paws and hind-paws huge and silly, but also full of menace. It was in the last moment before impact that Gor noticed she was carrying a small, brightly coloured bird in her right hand, its beak stretched in a soundless, endless squawk of terror. He raised his hands.

He heard the impact before he felt it. The air whistled from his lungs as he dropped backwards onto the bookcase, the girl felling him like a tree in the forest. For a moment he was in blackness as a mass of hair, smelling of gravy, furniture polish and pom-poms, claimed his face. He was aware of pain in his back and a tightness in his chest. There followed a second of absolute quiet, and then a roar as if a shell had struck the apartment. The girl began heaving sobs, coughing and spluttering as she fought to right herself, all the time not letting go of the small, still bird in her hand.

‘Kopeka! My Kopek-chik! He’s deeeeaaaaadddd!’ The words erupted from her.

‘Oh, malysh, shush now, collect yourself, and let’s have a look at you.’ Sveta huddled over her daughter, trying to heave her up from the tangle of rug and bookcase and Gor, yanking ineffectually at her arm. ‘I’ve told you not to run in the house, haven’t I?’

‘He’s deeeaaaaadddd! You made me kill him!’

‘No no, I can see his eyes are gleaming – look! He’s just stunned. Let’s get you up and check on our poor guest. Are you injured?’

‘I hate you!’

‘Now, now baby-kins! Mummy didn’t mean to make you fall over.’

‘But you diiiiiidddddd!’

‘I just want you to behave—’

‘Ladies – I can’t breathe,’ Gor broke in as the discussion became heated. The girl crushing his chest glowered at her mother and snivelled at the limp bird cupped in her hands. They carried on arguing. A flutter of panic rose in his throat and his hands flew into the air.

‘Help!’ It was the only thing he was able to say.

Albina squinted into his face, sniffed behind her trembling hands for a moment and shifted her weight up and sideways.

As she did so, the bird made an utterance in a high-pitched, acid voice. Gor’s eyebrows met his hairline and Sveta’s jaw dropped. Albina grinned as she wiped her nose on her sleeve, and then gazed into the globe of her hands.

‘He’s alive! Oh, Mama!’ She pulled the hapless Kopek close to her face to nuzzle his electric blue feathers.

‘Oh! That’s wonderful! I told you he was fine. But mind his beak, baby-kins. You know what happened last time,’ cautioned Sveta. ‘Now let’s get you up—’

‘Did that bird … I mean, did the bird just say—’

‘I told you she had an affinity for animals,’ beamed Sveta, pulling the girl up from the floor with one hand under each armpit, and then reaching out to Gor with a sunny smile.

‘Gor, this is my daughter Albina. Albina, say hello to Mister Papasyan.’ The girl regarded Gor sullenly. ‘Albina is not well today, are you, munchkin?’ continued Sveta, ‘so she really needs to go and rest and be quiet in her room. But you wanted to meet Mummy’s guest, didn’t you, darling? Gor is a magician. And we are going to rehearse. You don’t mind, do you?’

Albina said nothing, but looked along her lashes at Gor and chewed her lip. The bird made a guttural clucking noise.

‘I’ll put him away,’ said Albina, raising her head with a smile, ‘and then I can help you.’

The rehearsal that followed was, perhaps understandably, not up to scratch. Without props or a stage, and with both of them distracted by the day’s events, neither was in a magical frame of mind. Instead, they discussed various possible programmes for shows and the range of illusions they could offer, where they might stand and how they might move their arms and legs about. The list of meagre bookings so far taken was reviewed amid worried sighs from Gor. Sveta suggested some murky-sounding venues in depressing nearby towns that might be persuaded to have them. When she began chattering about organising a variety spectacular of their own, Gor succumbed to a cough, drowning out her words.

He observed her misty eyes, and asked her what the profit margins would be.

‘Well, er … I haven’t got that far, yet.’

He nodded his head knowingly, and Albina sniggered behind her hand.

Indeed, the girl was a continual distraction to Sveta, as she refused to leave the room. In fact, she refused to leave Gor’s side, and followed him around at the space of half a pace all afternoon; trailing him in the kitchen, huddling into him on the sofa, and even insisting on showing him into the bathroom when he enquired as to its whereabouts. Gor had taken a deep breath and bolted the door firmly as she waited for him in the hallway.

‘What sort of costume will you be providing?’

He issued her with a puzzled frown.

‘I must have a costume, must I not? Assistants must always be well presented – a sequinned bodice, I was thinking, with feathers at the shoulder, and a net skirt, with fishnet tights underneath. And a feathered tiara. It is traditional, is it not?’ Sveta laughed deep in her throat as Gor harrumphed and looked away – directly into the probing gaze of Albina.

‘Are you planning to use Kopek in your show, Mister Papasyan?’ she asked, sliding her feet over and over the nylon covering of the couch and setting Gor’s teeth on edge as she did so.

‘Ah, no, Albina, I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

‘Magicians use rabbits though, don’t they?’ she asked, and then, ‘Ouch, Mama, I caught my toe-nail.’

Gor shuddered as she picked at it. ‘Yes, some do. But I have not used animals in my magical expositions, ever. I find, when we are confusing and confounding the human mind, that animals are neither necessary nor advantageous.’

‘But they’re cute. Kopek would be cute, in a top hat or with a wand or something. He could hold it in his beak. Go on, Mister Papasyan, you could use him.’

‘No, no, Albina, really, it’s not necessary.’

‘Mama, tell Mister Papasyan he should use Kopek.’

‘Well, Gor, it is a good idea, don’t you think?’ Sveta beamed at him and wound a finger through her brittle blonde hair. ‘After all, people like animals—’

‘No, Sveta, it is out of the question. That … bird, can play no part in my—’

‘Our!’ interjected Albina.

‘My magic show. And that is final.’

Sveta drew in her lips and began to fiddle with the cuffs of her cardigan. Albina eyed Gor for a moment and let out a low chuckle.

‘You thought Kopek was swearing, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, Albina, he was swearing.’

‘No, you see, that’s where you’re wrong! He’s a very clever bird. He was speaking Japanese.’

‘Albina, really I think our guest—’

‘Shut up Mama! Let me tell Mister Papasyan.’ Albina stared at her mother as the latter avoided her gaze and dropped her eyes to her hands, which were now pulling on a scrap of fluff in her lap. ‘Kopek was speaking Japanese! He’s very keen on karate. So am I.’

‘She is,’ smiled Sveta, looking up at Gor and nodding.

‘I’m a yellow belt. Fu kyu is a karate exercise.’

‘It is!’ Sveta smiled again. ‘Albina learnt it at school.’

‘So you have a dirty mind, Mister Papasyan,’ said the girl, and she sent Gor a look from the curving corner of her eye. He could imagine her causing havoc in a hen-house.

‘I don’t know about that, Albina,’ simpered Sveta.

‘Are you a millionaire, Mister Papasyan?’ the girl lisped eventually, ‘because Mama says you can’t be, but Mister Golubchik in the bakery says you owned a bank—’

‘Albina!’ shrieked her mother, ‘we do not gossip here!’

‘Ladies!’ Gor began, his face closed, blank eyes on the floor. ‘It has been an interesting afternoon, but I fear I must leave you. I don’t think we will get an awful lot more done today.’ He was determined not to be drawn into a foolish conversation about karate moves, his finances or anything else with a twelve-year-old, or whatever she was.

‘Oh, but Gor, I can’t let you leave just yet,’ cried Sveta. ‘Here we’ve been planning all afternoon, and I haven’t offered you anything at all. Let me make you some tea and a little sandwich, before you go. I insist!’

When he thought about it, Gor had to agree that he was famished, especially as there had been no egg at lunchtime, so he gratefully allowed Sveta to trot into the kitchen to prepare a little something. He was relieved when Albina, after some minutes of further staring, stumbled out to help her mother. He took a turn of the room, briefly opening and then closing the purple curtains that shut out a view of the neighbouring block.

Sveta returned with a small tray on which stood a glass of tea, a rye-bread sandwich stuffed with cheese and parsley, and a painted oval dish of congealed boiled sweets.

‘Here, Gor, please help yourself. Albina and I will eat later.’

The women sat on the sofa opposite his armchair and watched as he began his snack. The tea was perfect. ‘Ahh!’ A warming glow spread throughout his belly. ‘This is wonderful, Sveta!’

‘Thank you. It is Georgian. You can say what you like about the Georgians, but when it comes to tea, they know what they’re doing.’

‘Indeed! And stew, in fact,’ agreed Gor. ‘Georgian cuisine is most satisfying!’ He bit into the sandwich, the coriander seeds on the crust adding a sweet lemony aroma to the sourness of the dark rye. He was suddenly ravenous, and chewed quickly.

‘I don’t know about that, to be honest. I don’t eat out much. Home cooking does for us. We like cutlets and stewed cabbage – you can’t go wrong with that.’

‘Oh yes, nothing wrong with that. Cutlets are a fine food. I didn’t mean to—’ Gor took another bite of the sandwich and started to chew. It was at this point that he noticed something odd, and it slowed his mastication. He felt something that was neither cheese, nor parsley, nor bread. Something with a strange texture – a crunch, slightly papery, slightly hairy, and slightly mushy, all at the same time. His jaw stopped moving and his teeth rested together, the food un-swallowed. Some sense was preventing his tongue from pushing the bolus to the back of his throat for the next stage. He gagged, and looked down at the sandwich.

‘Albina here likes ukha fish soup,’ carried on Sveta.

‘I like the heads,’ the girl agreed.

Gor nudged the two leaves of rye bread apart to view the filling more closely.

‘Oh yes, the fish heads, you do, don’t you?’

‘The eyes and brains are the tastiest bits,’ smiled Albina.

He squinted, and frowned. There, squashed between the cheese and the parsley, lay the partial remains of a huge, hairy brown moth. Its wings were spread wide, and covered most of the area of the bread. Only half its mottled, brown body remained.

‘They are full of vitamins, aren’t they?’ laughed Sveta, catching Gor’s eye as he looked up, his face pale, his twisted mouth still full of chewed up cheese-moth-parsley. Albina was watching him closely, her face twitching.

‘Is something wrong?’ Sveta’s face still curved with a smile, but her brow was creased with concern. Gor’s great eyes watered as they swiftly searched the room for any opportunity to get rid of the unwelcome food. There was none: no napkins, no plant pots. And still the women stared. There was nothing else for it. He manoeuvred his tongue underneath the mothy mouthful and swallowed, with steely determination.

‘No,’ he squeaked when he was sure it was not coming back up, and he cleared his throat before taking a thankful gulp of the hot, sweet tea, ‘Well, yes, actually. I must go.’ He shuddered at the thought of the moth flushing into his stomach, struggled out of the chair and hurried from the room, placing the unwanted tray back in the darkened kitchen on his way out.

‘Oh no, tell us what is wrong, please!’ implored Sveta, a note of genuine concern in her voice.

Gor sat on the bench to turf off the navy slippers and shove on his own comfortable brown boots.

‘I … well, I don’t know Sveta, maybe it’s all nonsense, but things keep … I don’t know, it’s just so strange … I must admit, I’m a little bit frightened.’ He looked up into her face.

‘But why?’ Her hand was on his shoulder.

‘There was a huge moth in my sandwich just now.’

‘A moth? Oh … dear!’ cried Sveta. ‘But that’s nothing to be scared of, Gor—’

‘It’s not the first odd thing, I assure you! There was the rabbit—’

‘Oh yes, the rabbit was dreadful!’

‘What rabbit?’ cried Albina.

‘And phone calls … at all hours of the day and night. Endless, silent phone calls! Knocks at the door too, when there’s nobody there. And then this morning, an egg disappeared from the pan, as it was boiling—’

‘Disappeared? Well, that’s magic! That’s … supernatural!’

‘Yes! No! And that’s not all. You won’t believe me but … there was a face at the window – a face!’

‘But you’re on the fourth floor!’ cried Sveta.

‘Exactly!’

‘Creepy!’ chimed Albina.

‘Yes,’ agreed Gor. ‘I find it quite … quite creepy, as you say.’ He frowned.

‘Who was it?’

‘No one,’ said Gor at last, the words pushed out through gritted teeth. ‘There was no one there. I looked … there was just thin air.’

‘We should look at the sandwich, Mama,’ directed Albina, ‘I think we should … be sure.’ The girl trotted into the kitchen and returned moments later with the dishevelled plate held out in front of her at arm’s length. The three looked down on the remains of the meal.

‘But it was there. I saw it!’ Gor’s long, thin index finger prodded into the bread, cheese and parsley, spreading out the food, probing for the winged intruder. There was nothing there.

‘It was there!’ His voice wavered as he looked into Sveta’s reassuring blue eyes. ‘What is happening to me? Do you think … I’m sick?’

She pursed her lips. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Two weeks, approximately. Since around the time we met, in fact.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Ooh Mama, what can that mean?’

‘Shush, Albina. I think I can help you, Gor. I have a friend, well – an acquaintance. She may be able to assist in … resolving all this.’

‘You have?’ Gor asked, surprised and relieved. ‘Is she a doctor, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Sveta, ‘much more useful. She is a psychic.’

‘Ah,’ said Gor quietly, and his eyes dropped to the floor.

‘Fu kyu!’ screeched Kopek from his perch in the kitchen.

Tolya Talks

The yellow ball of the sun hung like an egg yolk in the milky sky, spreading no warmth, exuding no glow – simply suspended. Anatoly Borisovich, or Tolya for short, swallowed a rich blob of saliva. Egg in milk, like his baba made on special mornings long ago, when he had been small and blond, able to charm the crows from the trees, the snails from the buckets. When he had been young. He whisked his thoughts, scrambling the sun-egg, hankering after – something edible, something nurturing, something good. He realised, with a grunt, that he was very hungry.

How many pairs of eyes along his corridor were resting on that sun, he wondered, how many of his fellow patients – is that what they were? – were still breathing, waiting for pancakes and milk, porridge and death. He knew there were other patients. He heard them sometimes. He hadn’t been out of his room, couldn’t remember how he’d got there or what lay beyond the door, but he knew there were others. He turned his head, bushy grey hair rustling on the pillow. The door was opening, the green of the newly painted corridor seeping into his room. A young, athletic-looking man entered and stood at the end of the bed, fidgeting, paper and pen held to his chest. The man appeared to be speaking to him. Was he real?

It was very odd, being spoken to. It hadn’t happened for, well, quite a while. Anatoly Borisovich screwed up his eyes. Yes, the young man’s mouth was definitely moving, the chiselled jaw jumping up and down, teeth winking. There were lots of words coming out, a jumble of sounds. He decided to listen, and did his best to tune in. He recognised the familiar crests and dips of the letter clusters, the sounds of syllables, but the words themselves seemed to be running into each other, racing, charging, leap-frogging even. He screwed up his nose.

The young man stopped. All was quiet. Anatoly Borisovich licked his lips, and his left eye twitched.

‘So what do you think?’ asked the young man. Anatoly Borisovich snuffled with satisfaction. He’d found the end of the ball of wool, the start and end of the phrase. Things were improving. ‘Is that something you might be able to take part in?’

Anatoly Borisovich hesitated. He hadn’t understood anything else the boy had said. And although he wanted to speak, he couldn’t marshal his tongue: it flopped shyly about in his mouth and hid behind his gums. Eventually he managed a smile, crinkling up his eyes, and let out a small groan.

The young man spoke again, more slowly. ‘It is very simple. You tell me about your dementia … well, I mean your forgetfulness, erm, your loss of memory and how it happened that you ended up in here, er, when was it …’ Grey eyes danced across the notes. ‘Thursday eighth of September? Almost a month ago. Anyway, I will analyse the information you give me, make a diagnosis, and then find a way of reducing your confusion, and your fears. So that you are happier. And maybe, you know … you can go home, at some point. You had some kind of physical breakdown, didn’t you? And a mental cataclysm of some sort? You were raving when you first came in?’

Anatoly Borisovich nodded and flexed his mouth, preparing to speak, but the boy, sensing a positive reception, was quick to go on.

‘Your file is quite sparse, but potentially, I find you an interesting subject … and anything you can tell me will be useful. I’m a medical student, you see, and I’m in the middle of my gerontology module. You will be my case study.’ The paper pad crinkled in his hands. ‘I have to get it in by the end of October, so …’ He looked into the old man’s eyes. ‘It’s not just decrepitude, is it? There was something – dramatic?’

Anatoly Borisovich tried to speak, but the boy went on. ‘You are willing to take part? Wait, turn your head to the light please?’ The young man paused, and squinted. ‘Actually, I want to ask you about those scars. Scars can be a very good place to start. I have learnt, you see, they cause trauma not just to the skin.’ Anatoly Borisovich nodded, the corners of his mouth pressed downwards with the weight of his visitor’s insight. The boy went on. ‘Maybe I can ask questions, and you can answer either yes or no, if that is all you can manage?’

The boy finally stopped talking. Anatoly Borisovich gulped in air and pushed out some words.

‘Your name? What is your name?’ The sounds crawled across dry vocal cords.

‘Vlad,’ said the young man, passing him a beaker of stale water from the bedside cabinet.

‘Vlad?’ He sipped and coughed. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

The young man smiled and fidgeted with his pen, but made no attempt to answer.

‘I mean,’ the old man took another sip of water, ‘Is it short for Vladimir, or Vladislav, or what? I can’t talk to you … if I don’t know you.’ He spoke slowly, waving his fingers in the air to underline the words. If Vlad had been blessed with an imagination, he might have likened Anatoly Borisovich to a wizard.

‘Vladimir,’ the young man replied with a smirk.

‘Good.’ Anatoly Borisovich heaved a great sigh. ‘You want to hear my story? I have never told it. Can you picture that?’ The young man was about to respond, so he went on swiftly, gathering pace. ‘Truth be told, I’d forgotten it. It was lost somewhere, somewhere in the trees, for so many years. But it has been coming back, while I have been lying here, seeing no one, being no one.’ His voice was almost inaudible, soft and dry like the whisper of grasses at the end of summer. ‘I forgot my present, but remembered my past. Well, well … And since you ask, so nicely … I will tell you. But it’s strange to hear words in my own voice! Imagine that!’ His eyes lit up with dazed wonder: eyes that shone too brightly. ‘Did you know what my voice sounded like? I’ll bet you didn’t. You’re the first person to show any … interest. They feed me and wash me and prod me with sticks but … but no one talks, no one listens.’ He pushed himself upright in the bed and bade Vlad shove another pillow behind his shoulders. ‘What day is it?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Expand?’ Anatoly Borisovich crinkled his face at Vlad.

‘Fourth of October. 1994.’

‘Ah! Autumn already.’ He took another drink, and smacked his lips. The voice got louder. ‘They never ask me how I am, you know: they just look at that chart, and ask me if I need the toilet,’ he carried on. ‘They think I’m a piss pot!’ He took childish delight in the word, chuckles hissing from his throat like air from an old tyre.

Vlad smiled and scratched his curly, chestnut head. Anatoly Borisovich noticed how the biceps quivered under the knit of his foreign-looking jumper.

‘I will put that right. Would you like some tea, perhaps? I can get an orderly to bring you some?’

‘Ah! Tea! Yes!’ The old man’s eyes shone, as if tea were a long-lost son.

A few minutes later, with the aid of some fragrant lubrication, the words tumbled briskly on his tongue.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ He stirred in a fistful of sugar cubes. ‘Is that a pine tree out there? Beyond the fence?’ He took a sip, and sucked in his cabbage-leaf cheeks. ‘These eyes are worn out with looking. I have looked long and hard, at many things, in many places. But I can’t make it out. It moves, you see: sometimes nearer, sometimes further away. One night it was at the window. I think it’s a tree. It must be, mustn’t it? If not a tree, well, I …’ the old man stuttered and stopped, turning wide eyes to Vlad. ‘There isn’t a forest?’

Vlad straddled the visitor’s chair by the old man’s bedside, pen and paper dropping to the floor.

‘No forest, Anatoly Borisovich. I don’t know about trees: I am a medical man. It may be a pine.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘I would say it is definitely a tree.’ The old man smiled encouragingly. ‘No forest, but lots of water. Because we’re by the sea.’

‘By the sea? Oh really?’

‘Of course – just a few kilometres further west.’ Vlad pointed into the grey. ‘That way: the Azov Sea.’

‘Ah! Yes! That rings a bell … maybe. Is Rostov far?’

‘Not far. We’re more or less half-way between Azov and Rostov. You are from Rostov, no?’

‘No.’ The old man nodded. ‘Not Rostov.’

‘Ah. Well, you seem to have found your voice, so talk, Anatoly Borisovich. Tell me what happened to you. The more you say, the more detailed my case study will be, and the more helpful to you. I’ve plenty of time: my shift has officially ended, so I’m free all afternoon, more or less. Do you remember being brought here?’ He smiled, generous lips drawing back to show the clean faces of straight white teeth. The old man’s eyes rested on them for a moment: they were sharp and huge and strong looking, like those of a horse. His tongue probed the stumps and pits in his own worn gums.

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Ah, well, maybe we can start a little further back?’

Anatoly Borisovich took a sip of tea, slurping joyously.

‘Very good. I was born in Siberia—’

‘Maybe not that far—’

‘—a little village not far from Krasnoyarsk. You know Krasnoyarsk?’ The old man waited, and fixed Vlad with a stare that demanded an answer.

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, of course – it has a hydroelectric dam. Wait, have you seen …’ he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a large, crisp bank note folded neatly in half. ‘See? It’s on the back of the new ten thousand note. The dam.’ He held it to the old man’s face for a moment.

‘Ten thousand rouble note? Are you a millionaire, Vlad?’ Anatoly Borisovich was incredulous.

‘Not yet, but I’m hoping!’ He flashed a smile. ‘But seriously, ten thousand roubles is nothing: about two US dollars. That’s Yeltsin’s inflation for you … we’re all millionaires now!’ Vlad winked as he re-folded the note and placed it carefully back in his pocket.

‘Two dollars? Millionaires?’ The old man’s mouth flopped open and a furry, pale tongue poked out. ‘But what would we want with US dollars, eh? We have our health and this Soviet Union, I mean, um … what’s it called now?’

Vlad shrugged and bent to pick up his pen and paper. ‘What indeed? But continue with your background. You were born in Siberia.’ He leant forward on the chair, thrusting his chin towards the old man. ‘Do you remember your childhood?’

‘Oh yes, it was all to do with being a child. I remember, you know, out there in the forest, everyone had to work. In the forest, with the trees … hard work! Everyone had quotas. You had to fulfil your quota, or your pay was cut. It was piecework. My papa, he over-filled his quotas. All the time. He was a hero, you know! They put him on a flag – for a time. We never saw him.’ The old man’s eyes wandered as his mind strayed back to reach out to his papa.

‘Freezing cold all the time, I should think? And what about the gulags, the political prisoners? Did you see them? It must have been the 1930s?’

Vlad’s questioning seemed vulgar to the old man. He wanted to think about his papa, and his baba, and the pine trees. He didn’t want to think about the camps. He frowned.

‘You may have thousands of roubles, Vlad, but you know little about people. Listen,’ he coughed and sipped his tea, ‘I was a child. I was happy. I didn’t know about any camps. Comrade Stalin was our friend, our protector!’ His eyes glowed. ‘It was just a little village, a straggle of huts with pigs and chickens, hard workers, lazy drunks. It was cold, in winter. But Krasnoyarsk is in the south: we had a summer, oh yes … hot and humid and heaving with midges! Midges so bad they sent the cows mad … or so went the story. There were lots of stories.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Stories come out of the forest, you see … come out of the bark of the trees, to eat up your mind like an army of ants!’ He stopped, grinning. ‘Let me tell you a story.’

‘Is it relevant?’ Vlad answered meekly. He knew he should be drilling for facts, perhaps working through a structured Q and A about the weeks leading up to the old man’s admission. He also knew Polly would be waiting for him after work. She’d probably have sex with him – joyous, sweaty, slippery sex – if she was in a good mood. Which she wouldn’t be, if he was late. He checked the Tag-Heuer watch strapped to his wrist.

‘You said you would listen, Vlad! Please listen!’

The old man wanted to ramble, to go way back. Maybe it would be good for a bit of practical analysis. Maybe, even, he could write it up as a ‘talking cure’? It depended on what was said, of course, but … He had thought the old man would cough up some story about a fall, maybe TB, too much vodka or maybe some old war wound … But a spot of psychoanalysis might be worth a try. A story was a story. And to be honest, he had always loved a good story. Just not as much as sex.

‘Yes, of course, go ahead, Anatoly Borisovich.’

‘Once upon a time, in a forest far away, there lived a young lad: green eyes, impish smile, and cow-lick hair. A simple-clever lad called Tolya—’

‘That’s you?’

‘You’re sharp! A boy called Tolya, simple-clever, who lived with his granny, whom he called Baba, his dog called Lev, and his papa. Away in the East, where the bears prowl and the pine trees sway. Where the saws bite the trees day-in, day-out, and where little boys learn about life …’

Vlad rested the pen nib on the paper, ready to write.

Tolya wrapped his hands around the mug of broth waiting for the warmth to flow through his sore, grubby fingers into the bones of his hands. He was sitting in his corner on the wooden bench, swinging his feet under the table and leaning against the wall. The lamp was lit but his eyes strayed to the blackness beyond the window next to him and his breath steamed up the glass. Not seeing was worse than seeing. He put the mug on the table and wiped the steam with his sleeve. He peered into the hole he’d made and moved the lantern away, the better to make out what was outside.

For a handful of heartbeats there was nothing but darkness and the noise of the wind chasing through the sky and the trees. Then he saw something move near the well. He strained forward, feet nearly touching the floor as he pivoted. He watched the rectangle of black, holding his breath. Nothing materialised into a shape. He slowly breathed out and sat back down to slug the last mouthful of broth. It was good, salty and hot, and he felt cosy with the mug in his hands. He observed his own reflection in the bottom, all fat nose and tiny bug eyes. He chuckled: Tolya the monster, RARRRRR! King of the forest! He roared and nearly choked, coughing broth back into the mug and spluttering barley grain down his chin. He wiped his face on his sleeve. As he turned his head to do so, again he saw a movement in the corner of his eye, far off in the yard: a fluttering, maybe at ground level, maybe in the arms of the pine trees reaching out like giants when the wind blew. It had not been a figure, but a flicker. A flapping wing, perhaps. He shivered, and swung his legs under the table to keep himself brave.

‘We are marching … we are marching … and we march to vic-tor-y!’ he sang in a wobbly, high-pitched, keeping-his-spirits-up voice, determined to sit it out until Baba’s return. He would keep watch, and not be scared. Although being scared was one of his favourite thrills. Just not too scared.

‘Where’s she got to, eh boy? Don’t be scared: there’s nothing to be scared of.’ He addressed Lev the dog in comforting tones. Lev wasn’t scared: Lev was never scared. He was stretched out under the table resting his bones, dreaming of rabbits. Tolya rubbed his ears. ‘She’ll be back in a moment. Or Papa. And he’ll bring some sausage. I’m sure he will. And cheese. And maybe a drawing pad, like he said he would. Hmmm … We are marching, we are marching, and we march to—’

The singing ended in a squeak. A thump had rattled the window. He’d been lying belly-down on the bench, stroking the dog under the table, and had forgotten to keep a look out. Now he dared not look up, dared not move. There was something monstrous in the yard. His heart thudded. There it was again! A tapping on the window, faint but insistent, as if hard, icy fingers were reaching out, piercing the glass, and if he sat up …

‘Lev … Lev!’ His voice squeezed between taut vocal cords, his body stiff like washing left in the frost. ‘Lev … come here, boy!’ The dog looked up drowsily, puzzled by the child. He licked the empty hand proffered to him and flopped back down with a groan.

‘Lev! listen! There’s something outside. I can hear it. It wants to get in!’ Still Tolya bent under the table, now pushing his head and shoulders down and tipping himself off the bench to the floor. He lay alongside the dog. ‘It’s coming for us … we must be brave … we must shut our eyes, and cross our fingers. That’s the drill. The boys at school told me. Cousin told me. And we must ask Comrade Stalin—’

Tolya’s head cracked the underside of the table as the door opened and cold air washed into the cottage. He cowered. Lev thumped his tail.

‘Tolya!’ A voice like a pistol shot. ‘Come help me, son! I’ve got a lot to carry. Come on now, pet, help Baba!’

Lev heaved his tired bones from the floor and ambled towards the owner of the voice, tongue lolling as she cuffed his ear with a large, reddened hand.

‘Lev, you old rascal, what do you want with me, eh? And what have you done with my grandson?’

‘Baba, I’m here,’ Tolya scrambled out from under the table, pulling hair and dirt from his baggy grey trousers as he did so. His hands shook. ‘We heard a scary sound. It was the moth boy, fluttering in the trees. He tapped on the window! I was … I was petrified!’ The boy looked up from his trousers and a single tear escaped each of his bright green eyes as he blinked.

Baba’s hands stopped still on the dog’s nose and she regarded the boy. ‘You heard the moth boy, you say? And what did he sound like, eh? Like wind in the trees, or like me walking in the yard?’ She raised an eyebrow and waited for Tolya to reply, but the boy avoided her gaze, and instead fiddled with the buttons on his jerkin, running his fingers over their smooth surface again and again. ‘Did Lev hear the moth boy?’

Tolya shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Baba.’

‘You’ve been scaring yourself instead of doing your jobs. Hiding under the table with the dog – you should have been drawing water from the well, or clearing ash from the stove. You’re a rascal, young Tolya, and Papa will have to be told!’

She put down her bag and handed him a solid brick of black bread. ‘Food in our stomachs, son, that’s what you need to worry about. The real – the here! You’ve scared yourself, and now no one will sleep.’

‘But I’ll sleep with you, Baba, and with Lev here, and I’ll sleep well. No matter what the moth boy does.’

‘Ha, maybe you’ll sleep well with some food inside you, we’ll see. But you mustn’t get between me and my sleep, I’ve a lot to do tomorrow. Now, help me get the dinner ready. We won’t wait for Papa, he’s going to be late.’

‘He’s got a quota,’ said Tolya in a serious, grown-up tone.

‘He’s got a quota,’ echoed Baba, nodding her head.

The pair washed their hands in the bucket by the stove and began preparations for the evening meal.

‘No sausage tonight, Baba?’ Tolya searched through her bag.

‘Ha! Sausage? No sausage tonight. I’ve forgotten what it looks like. They say things will get better but … but there, we will wait and see. I haven’t forgotten the taste!’

‘Ah, the glorious taste!’

‘Pure heaven,’ grinned Baba.

‘Like eating sunshine,’ said Tolya.

‘You know, we could always try making sausage out of Lev. What do you reckon?’ Baba’s worn cheeks glowed red as she chuckled.

‘Baba! That’s not funny!’

‘No,’ she agreed wryly, after a short pause, ‘it’s not. You’re my sunshine, boy. You are my joy. Don’t ever change.’ She hugged him close, bread knife in hand, and breathed in the familiar, warm smell of his hair, his neck, his young life.

They set about their tasks, and swapped stories of the day’s events.

‘Did you draw me anything today, young Tolya, eh?’

‘No, Baba. I need a new piece of chalk. That one’s all worn away, I can’t hold onto it.’

‘Akh, again? Well, we’ll see what I can do. Maybe up at the school house we’ll be able to beg a piece of chalk. We’ll keep trying. I love your pictures. You’ve got a gift there, son. Much good it’ll do you.’

The well bucket clanked as the wind whipped out of the trees and across the yard. The boy dropped his spoon. ‘So, Tolya,’ said Baba slowly, ‘now you’ve told me about school, what’s this talk of the moth boy? Where’s this coming from? Old stories, boy … not good Communism.’ She observed him from the corner of her eye as she began to cut the black loaf into slices. Tolya stirred the buckwheat porridge with an inexpert hand.

‘We were talking after school, Baba. Pavlik has seen him. And Gosha. He came to their windows, in the night. He was tapping for the candles. And cousin Go—’

‘He should know better!’ Baba tutted, and shook her head.

‘It’s true though! He said the moth boy wants to get into their houses, to get near the light, and lay eggs in their ears. They’ve all seen him! All of them! He waits at the windows! Maybe he wants to eat them! Suck out their brains—’

‘Enough! On with your jobs!’ Baba scowled over the bread. ‘Those boys with their stories! I’m going to have a word with that cousin of yours!’

Tolya pretended to get on with his jobs, but his eyes strayed back to the window. In his head, he could really see moth boy: his moon-washed face, pale as the northern summer night, pale as milk, luminous as ice; his huge eyes, round, bulbous, staring from his shrunken skull like twin planets, empty and dead; his stomach, round and furry, grossly blown up and dissected into two pieces – thorax and abdomen, both parts moving and throbbing; worst of all, his wings, fluttering, green and brown and blue, vibrating, shimmering, huge and furry: inhuman. He could see him flitting amongst the trees, shivering, diving, a puff of moth-dust from his vibrating wings, projecting himself, aching to cross from the trees into the village, from the dark to the light, fluttering over chimneys and into window frames, knocking on the panes, reaching out with limbs that were withered and ice-cold, frond-like … were they wing-tips, or antennae?

‘Is that done?’

He sucked in air with a jolt. The spoon in his hand was hovering over the pan, not stirring but making useless round movements in the air. The porridge looked stodgy, and was drying at the edges.

‘Yes, it’s done, Baba.’ He nodded and smiled, and carefully scooped a good serving into each of their bowls, adding a peck of salt as he went.

‘Eat well, Tolya. We have a Subbotnik tomorrow: you will need your strength for the voluntary work.’

‘Another Subbotnik! But Baba, it’s Saturday! I want to play, and help Papa in the yard, and teach Lev how to march!’

Baba gave Tolya a tired look, and sighed into her lumpy porridge. ‘Tolya, that’s the point of a Subbotnik. We do good works on our day off. Well, we who have no choice do. And everyone reaps the benefit. It is our duty.’

‘But that’s not fair!’ The boy’s bottom lip started to tremble.

‘Life’s not fair, Tolya, life’s not fair. Now eat your porridge, and grow big and strong. Then you can tell them what to do with their Subbotnik.’ She laughed, the sound gravelly and low. Tolya cuddled up closer to her, sharing her warmth, and chewed on his black bread and buckwheat, determined to grow big and strong.

Later that night, as they lay side-by-side in the big wooden bed in the corner of the room, Tolya listened to his baba’s breathing. Steady, big breaths whistled in and out of her chest, making the quilt rise and fall, rustling slightly. She was warm and solid, like a living stove. He knew she wasn’t asleep.

‘Tell me a story, Baba.’

‘Get to sleep, boy – it’s late. Too late for stories.’ She turned onto her side towards him, plumping up the straw pillow with her shoulder, and tucking down her head so that her nose and mouth were under the covers.

‘Tell me the moth boy story, Baba.’

‘Akh, I wish I’d never opened my mouth. Moth boy … what nonsense! There is no story. It’s just a myth; tittle-tattle. I’ve never seen him …’ Baba’s voice trailed off and she yawned, ‘And it was all so long ago.’

‘Not that long ago, Baba. Not like when you were a girl.’

‘Ha!’ She chuckled and opened her eyes. ‘No, not that long ago … yes, when I was a girl … that was another century! There were no radios, no mobile cinemas, no electricity, not anywhere – and no one could read! No one like us, I mean. There were no communes, no soviet councils …’

‘But that was before moth boy?’ prompted Tolya.

‘Akh, moth boy. No, moth boy’s not that old – although, if he’s a spirit then … he’s as old as water, as old as the stars. Maybe the shaman knows, eh? You know the local people believe, don’t you? And who’s to say they’re wrong.’

‘What did you see, Baba?’

‘Nothing. It was a dream … a story. The story got into my dream. Some words people were saying.’ She began to doze off.

‘But what about the story?’ He pressed his elbow into her chest.

‘A boy ran away to the forest; a strange boy. He wanted to be a shaman, that’s why he went. He hid in the trees, shaking the leaves … but the moonlight slid into him, through the cracks round his eyes.’ Tolya felt around his own eyes with soft fingers, looking for cracks. ‘It shone in his brain, you see. And once it got into him, he couldn’t come back, no matter how cold and lonely he was. He was moonstruck; a lunatic, half boy … and half moth. He taps at the windows, but he can’t come back.’ Baba’s voice was becoming thick with sleep.

‘I’ve heard him, Baba!’ Tolya rocked his blond head into Baba’s shoulder to rouse her. ‘He’s real.’

‘Oh, my boy! Real, not real: what’s the difference, eh?’ She smiled and patted his hair with a heavy hand as her eyes fell shut. ‘Nothing lasts forever, except stories.’

‘But we believe in him, don’t we Baba?’

‘Go to sleep. We believe what we want to. And what we believe must be real, mustn’t it?’ Tolya nodded. ‘Maybe you’ll be a scientist when you’re grown up, and you can tell me if spirits are real or not.’

‘I will, Baba. I’ll be a scientist. Then we’ll know.’

‘Good. But now it’s time to sleep. Papa will be home soon, and he’ll be angry if we’re awake.’

Tolya closed his eyes and pressed his nose into the pillow, nestling into the warmth of his babushka, and imagining how his laboratory might look, when he was grown and big and strong. He would get to work in a flying machine, and eat only sausages and sweets.

‘Next time you see moth boy, Baba, you know what to do?’ She did not reply, but he carried on talking, looking down into his own hands. ‘Just close both your eyes, and cross both your fingers, and say to yourself, as loudly as you can, “Comrade Stalin, protect me!” and all will be well. That’s what the boys said. All will be well. Just believe. That’s what they told me.’

Baba grunted and stroked his head. The warmth of the bed spread through his limbs and over his mind as he fell into the velvet nest of sleep. A sleep so deep, he heard nothing, sensed nothing. Not even the lonely sound on the windowpane.

tap-tap-tap

The old man’s head snapped up.

‘You see, Vlad, moth boy is as old as the wind, the water. The story … I didn’t make it up! Ask anyone!’ He rubbed his eyes with a sticky, squelching sound. ‘They go to the flame, they get too close and – fssssst!’

Vlad stared at the old man, puzzled, and then turned his eyes to the fine grey mist rising from the mud flats beyond the window. He blew out his cheeks.

‘We didn’t really get very far, did we, Anatoly Borisovich?’

‘I was too young … too young to know the half of it! I thought Comrade Stalin would protect me! What did I know?’

Vlad glanced at his watch.

‘Indeed. Anatoly Borisovich, I’m sorry, I have to go.’ It was gone four o’clock. He licked his lips at the thought of Polly. ‘I am sorry to leave at such an interesting moment.’

‘Interesting?’ Anatoly Borisovich yawned. He felt warm inside. He hadn’t talked at such length for a long, long time, and had forgotten how energising it was to converse with another person, instead of muttering to himself. He also felt extremely tired.

‘I’ll come again, maybe later in the week? Perhaps then we can get to the research part? What you’ve told me is fascinating, thank you, but I can’t use it. It doesn’t help me understand what has been troubling you recently, you see, and what caused your collapse, and your memory loss. That is the point of my research.’

‘Research?’ repeated the old man absently. ‘Collapse?’ He frowned. ‘Oh yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You couldn’t see your way to bringing me a little morsel to eat next time, could you? We don’t get much that is sweet here, Vlad, and I do find talking exhausting. Do you like a bit of cake, yourself?’

‘Cake?’ Vlad looked hurt. ‘I don’t eat cake. I’m an athlete – or at least, I was.’

‘Oh really? That’s a story!’

‘Not really.’

The old man’s eyes rested on Vlad’s arms as the muscles flexed under his sweater, then travelled to his legs, slim in their close-fitting jeans.

‘I’ll see what I can do to find you something sweet. And hopefully next time we can make some progress on how you got those scars. It will help us make sense of what is … going on now.’ Vlad was shuffling his papers and jangling his keys.

The old man reached a wrinkled hand up to his cheek to feel the marks with dry fingers.

‘I loved my baba. It wasn’t my fault, you know, what happened to her.’

A Study in Bisection

Gor drove home through the autumn mist, back across the bridge, past the newspaper stand, past the busy, bustling square, past the kiosks and the lights, hurrying for a little peace. On arrival, he bolted the door behind him, put on the safety catch, and cleaned his teeth, twice. The second time, he used rock salt and oil of menthol, slicing through the film of moth that clung to his canines. He flossed with a piece of white cotton, and examined his mouth in the bathroom mirror, grinning back at himself with a mirthless growl.

A visit to a psychic: he couldn’t believe he had agreed to it. But Sveta had been keen to help, and what was more, her concern had seemed genuine. He hadn’t expected it. When they first met, two weeks before, he had not found her a promising prospect. She had been hesitant and largely displeased, full of sighs and fussy questions: not the best properties of a magical assistant. Their second rehearsal had been little better. But today she had smiled, laughed even, and turned into a real person. A real person who served up giant, hairy moths in her sandwiches. Gor shuddered. Was he losing his mind? Had the moth even been real? No one else had seen it. He ran his tongue around his teeth as he sat in his armchair, the cats twisting around his ankles, mewing.

But the rabbit – there were witnesses to that. It had been very real, and very disturbing. A rabbit and a moth: there must be some logic to this. He leant down to tickle Pericles’ chin and thought back to his first encounter with Sveta, searching his mind for clues, trying to remember everything, exactly as it had happened. It had been warm and sunny in the morning, with a fine rain setting in at lunchtime. The headlines on the radio were of the rouble plummeting against the dollar, savings disappearing, huge rallies in oil stocks, the threat of war in Chechnya. And in his own apartment, he had been invaded by a woman who had answered his advert – fluttering on a lamp post in the leaf-strewn street – the day it had been put up. She had come in, fully unprepared, and fussed.

‘Mister Papasyan—’

‘Call me Gor.’

‘As you wish. Mister—’

‘Gor, please,’ he repeated politely but firmly. He was hunched away from her, grunting slightly with the effort of doing up the box clasps. She chewed on her red bottom lip, and then remembered her lipstick.

‘All right. Gor …’ Her voice trailed off.

She had forgotten what she was going to say. She strained her neck to observe the outline of his shoulder-blades through the old, thin cotton of his shirt, listening to him grunt, and wondered if he suffered from asthma. Her own chest felt tight with a sudden edge of panic. She breathed out noisily and tried to relax.

‘It would make what we have to do this afternoon much easier if you could just call me Gor. And breathe in.’

‘I see.’ She breathed in again, trying to make herself smaller, but resenting the implication of his words. She was not a large woman, although equally, not birch-like. Who needed twig women? What good were they? And who was he to tell her to breathe in? He had her at a disadvantage, and she wondered for the tenth time if this afternoon had been a mistake. All she could do was close her eyes, patient and saint-like, as he huffed and puffed.

‘And I will call you Sveta, if that is permissible to you?’

‘Oh yes, very good.’ Her voice fluttered and she did not open her eyes.

‘There, that all seems correct.’ He made a vague ‘rum-pum-pum’ sound in his cheeks and stood up tall, towering over her. ‘Where were we?’ He scratched his head, the silver hair ruffling as his fingers played a trill against his skull. He appeared more fuddled than she had expected.

She pursed her lips, unknowingly pushing her red lipstick further along the crevices that radiated from her mouth, out into the soft, doughy pallor of her face. Suddenly, she brightened.

‘You ask me to wiggle my toes?’ she asked hopefully, arching one heavy brown eyebrow.

‘No, not yet. It’s far too soon for that. We have a little way to go. Just …’ He positioned her hand higher, pulling on her fingers, and paused to observe the effect. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Um, fairly … normal. Not magical, at the moment, I have to say.’

He turned away tutting to himself, hands on hips, shaking his head.

‘Is something wrong?’

He did not reply, but turned slowly this way and that, scanning the room.

‘Gor?’

‘The saw …’ his voice came from between tight lips.

He turned back towards her and his eyes, large as the moon and dark as night, rolled slowly from one side of their sockets to the other, and back again. She felt a sweat break out on the palms of her hands and a fluttering in her stomach: he really was a fright to look at. ‘The saw, Mister … er, Gor?’

Gor spun away. He was annoyed with himself and what he considered the rather slow-witted woman before him. He took in the windowpanes, the rain behind them threatening to dissolve the sky and the land and bring everything to a smudgy, dripping halt. He took in his living room, bathed in the brown, honest glow of the books and sheet music that lined its walls, exuding a scent of permanence. He took in his baby-grand piano, dark and shiny as polished jet, perfectly tuned to be played at any moment. He took in the fluffy white cat reclining over its lid, one claw-prickled paw raised as if to strike at the polished perfection of the wood. And there, in the middle of it all, he took in the corpulent middle-aged woman, in a box.

He sighed, and removed his eyes from her: she upset him. The lipstick was too sticky, the hair too blonde, her understanding of magic zero and … and the rasping sighs that plumed and flowed from her like lava would have singed his tired nerves at the best of times. This afternoon was definitely not the best of times, despite the comforting rain. And now he couldn’t find the bloody saw!

‘It’s on the table, by the door,’ said Sveta quietly. He started at the words, coughed and refocused his eyes. They came to rest on the small table by the door. He shook his head.

‘Ah, I see, madam, I see. My eyes are … tired.’ He crossed to collect it, hips and ankles clicking as he went. He examined the blade in the puny light of the lamp.

‘Yes. The saw: good! We’d better move on, before I forget something else. Do you feel … stable?’

She considered briefly, and nodded carefully. Gor did not respond. He was stroking his chin and staring through her. She swallowed.

It wasn’t that his face was old: no, any face can make you wonder how it once belonged to a baby. But this – it was a face that was so mournful, so haggard and frayed, with such huge eyes, it could make a priest cry. Sveta shuddered, and the box rattled softly. On top of the piano, the white cat lay in abandonment, upside-down, and eyed her with mild interest.

‘Svetlana Mikhailovna, hold fast. All will be well. I have to pause to think … I am an old man – you may have noticed. We take our time, in all things.’ As he spoke, he waved a large, thin hand in the air, and then let it flap down again, the gesture both artistic and defeated. He did not smile. In fact, he looked exceedingly morose. ‘Strange, you may think, as time is against us, but there it is.’

Again Sveta pursed her lips, and tried not to look at Gor or the cat, which now seemed to be winking at her with its sapphire eyes.

‘I am holding fast. You may have noticed – I have no choice.’ She eyed the window and the rain swirling against the murky sky. The light was fading, and it made her anxious: she had a hair appointment at six. ‘Do please hurry.’

The old man stood beside her, the top of his head not far from the ceiling above.

‘You may feel some vibration, I fear. But there should be no more than that. It is a long time since I have attempted this action, so I have had the saw cleaned and sharpened. There will be no rust. My last assistant, God rest her soul, was quite against rust. She had an allergy.’ Gor shrugged.

Sveta offered him a tight-lipped smile. ‘I am not against vibration.’ Her chin rose. ‘And I have no known allergies.’

He nodded, and rolled up his sleeves. ‘When we attempt this action on the stage, of course, you will not be balanced in the box between two chairs. I will have my whole magical cabinet at my disposal. It is just our misfortune we cannot use it today.’

‘That’s a relief. But why can’t we use the cabinet today? I think I would feel a lot more “in character” if I were in a magical cabinet rather than balanced on two chairs. It was a lot of fuss getting into this box. And it seems quite unprofessional, to me.’

Sveta did not feel in character, or professional, or magical, at all. In truth, she did not know what the character of a magician’s assistant should be, but she was fairly certain that it should be more glamorous than this. What was the point in her lipstick and her impending hair appointment if she were just to be packaged up in a musty apartment in the suburbs, laughed at by cats and repeatedly observed by an off-putting old man with a face like death? She chewed her lip.

‘Since you ask so directly … we cannot use the cabinet, dear Sveta, because Dasha, my queen cat, had a litter of kittens in it, and they cannot be moved for a few days yet. She would tear you to pieces if you tried. She is a very … protective mother.’

Sveta felt the blood drain from her face.

‘How unhygienic!’

‘It was a safe place for her, I suppose. I don’t worry about these things. We have bigger things to worry about, you and I.’ He flicked a switch and the room was bathed in an acid lemon light. ‘That’s better! Now I can see!’ He engaged the saw into the metal groove at the centre of the box and Sveta gritted her teeth. The light reflected off the blade and stabbed at her eyes as the saw’s angle sharpened, and it made her angry, like a blow to the head.

‘You’re not …’ she couldn’t get her words out.

Gor began with a few experimental swipes of the blade. It made a noise like hell. She persisted.

‘… you aren’t seriously expecting me—’

Metal on metal rang out across the apartment; sharp and piercing. She gulped in air.

‘… to engage in magical expositions … in a cabinet …’

The saw twanged and Gor muttered under his breath.

‘… in which a cat has had kittens?’ Sveta shouted, voice yodelling with the effort. The sawing stopped.

‘Oh yes, Sveta. I expect that: most definitely,’ he said softly. He examined his handiwork and the blade, and added, ‘But do not fret. I will sweep it out, and administer some disinfectant. All will be well.’

Sveta’s eyes bulged. He took up the saw and again worked its blade forwards and backwards, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. It screeched and sang into Sveta’s ears.

This was not what she had envisaged when she answered the advert on the lamp post. There was no glamour here, only vibration and screeching, dark eyes and cats: on and on it went. She began to feel ill, stomach clenching, like that time she had rashly decided to take the ferry across the Kerch Straits to Crimea shortly after lunching on a basket of cherries and a litre of kvas. So long ago … She began to pant.

‘Be still, Sveta. Don’t wriggle.’

‘Oh, but … the noise! The vibrations … they are going … straight through my …’ Sveta’s face turned pale olive.

‘Sveta?’ He ceased sawing. ‘Is everything …?’ She groaned and waved her hands weakly in the holes at the side of the box. ‘No, not hands at the moment, Sveta, move your feet: it’s your feet everyone will be interested in.’

She groaned and made vague twitching movements with her big toes.

‘Yes, that’s it! Waggle away! Keep it going. Is everything else … normal?’ His tone suggested concern, but his face remained unchanged, intent on the saw.

‘Ugh … yes – no … I don’t know!’ She gritted her teeth and smiled, her expression manic. ‘Am I cut in half yet? That’s the main thing!’ Colour, of a sort, was returning to her cheeks.

‘Erm, more or less. You require quite a good deal of sawing.’

She did not know whether this was a compliment or not. ‘I see.’

‘I think that will suffice for the moment.’ He drew out his handkerchief with a slightly trembling hand and mopped his brow.

‘Oh! That’s all? But you haven’t drawn the two halves apart.’

‘No. To be frank, I don’t think we have sufficient stability to draw the two halves apart. And, again to be frank, I am not sure I have the strength. It’s been a long time since … Well, would you be distraught if, on this occasion, we just assume that you have been bisected? After all, there is no audience here to please, apart from Pericles.’

Gor reached up a hand to fondle the cat and it puffed into his palm, a translucent globule of spit rolling from its open jaw onto the parquet below in an expression of feline ecstasy. Sveta shuddered.

She was disappointed by the whole experience, and felt an odd urge to cry. She had been cut in half, and it had been most unpleasant, but he couldn’t even be bothered to draw the two halves apart! This mysterious magician, this person about whom she had heard so much gossip and legend, was turning out to be a disappointment. His apartment was clogged with books and cats and pianos, his demeanour was morose, and as for the rumours of wealth and fortune and gold in the cistern: well, frayed shirt collars and darned trousers told their own story. She found no evidence of treasure, of any sort.

‘Very well, Mister Papasyan,’ she said in clipped tones. ‘If that is it for today, could you release me? I really have to be going – I have other appointments.’ The old man nodded and bent to undo the clasps, stopping short as a sharp rap rang out on the apartment door.

‘What now?’

‘It was the door,’ Sveta explained, still in clipped tones.

‘Yes, I know, I—’ Gor began, but thought better of completing the sentence. The woman seemed displeased. ‘Bear with me, Sveta. I should see who it is. I won’t be a moment.’

‘But—’ she rattled slightly in her box, and then, as it rocked on the chairs beneath it, realised stillness was the better option. Gor patted down his hair and headed for the front door.

He thrust an eye to the spy hole before opening up, and saw no one. But it had definitely been a knock, and definitely his door. He stepped back, released the safety chain and pulled the door open. The empty hallway lay before him, dark and silent. He peered left and right, sniffed the air, scratched his head and shrugged. There was no one. He was about to shut the door when a scrap of something on the floor caught his eye, and he looked down. There, on his doorstep, lay a huddle of brilliant white and damson red. He touched the object with his foot, stirring it slightly to better make out what it was. His breath caught and, ignoring the disgruntled rattling coming from the living room, he bent to his haunches for a closer look. Eventually, he realised: before him lay the body of a white rabbit, an oozing straggle of tendons marking the place where its head had once been.

A door slammed along the corridor and he shot to his feet, trying to make out who was there. Had it been the door to the staircase? He squinted into the gloom, but saw no one. He held his breath as he listened to the stillness: the patter of rain on the windows, occasional notes from his neighbour’s TV. The headless rabbit made no sound. Gor gazed down on it and rubbed his chin.

‘Help!’

Sveta’s cry forced him back to movement.

‘One moment!’ he called, and stooped to gather the limp body from the doorstep, noting that it was still softly warm. Its nose must have been wiffling up until about an hour before. Taking one last glance down the corridor, he turned and shut the apartment door.

He made for the living room with quick steps as the cause of Sveta’s discomfort became clear. She was twisting and turning her head, writhing this way and that as best she could, trying to escape the attentions of Pericles. The naughty cat was seated on top of the box, clinging on with the sharpest claws of one paw and fishing for the whites of her eyes with the other. As she twisted, the box rattled and tipped, working itself towards the edge of the chairs. Gor swore under his breath and dashed across the room.

‘Pericles! Away, sir!’ He took a threatening stride towards the cat and brandished the body of the rabbit like a rolled-up newspaper. The cat dodged the blow and sprang from the box, arcing through the air to land with a thump in the doorway before retiring from the room with an indignant flick of his fluffy white tail.

Gor stood panting as he observed Sveta with a deep grimness: she was still in the box, and the box was still balanced on the chairs. But now she had a trail of sticky rabbit blood stretching from ear to lipsticked mouth, and her eyes, round and wet and shivering, were fixed on the contents of his right hand. There was a moment of silence.

‘My dear Svetlana Mikhailovna—’ he began in his business baritone. It was interrupted by a high-pitched shriek.

‘Let me out of here! Let me out!’

‘Yes.’ He concurred, and placed the rabbit corpse in the nearest suitable receptacle – a fruit bowl on the sideboard – before approaching the box. ‘I am sorry about this, Sveta. This is most peculiar.’

Her response was a mixture of words and sounds and wateriness, unintelligible and upsetting. Gor undid the clasps with tacky fingers and lifted the lid, offering Sveta his hand so that she could climb out safely. She stared at his bloody fingers, tutted and turned away, instead making her own route out of the box, backing out, behind first, wobbling, sniffing and shaking her head.

‘You may want to, er, freshen … your appearance, Sveta. I am sorry … this is most unfortunate. Please, follow me – the bathroom is this way.’

She nodded and he led her to the hall, pointing out the way to the bathroom with a gentle, blood-stained hand. Sveta locked the door behind her. He heard her shriek as she looked in the mirror, but her snuffles and cries were soon masked by the knocking of the pipes as water ran in the sink. He washed his own hands in the kitchen, rolling them over and over in the stream of cold water and the froth of the soap.

Back in the living room, he sat on the piano stool, shoulders hunched, and observed the small, furry corpse in the fruit bowl. It was a domestic rabbit: someone had owned this little creature, most likely as a pet, not for food or fur. The rain beat on the windows and thunder rumbled in the distance. He observed the rabbit, and wondered why it was not wet. There was a movement in the hall.

‘Do your cats always knock on the door when they bring you a trophy?’ Sveta asked. She already had on her coat and scarf. Gor couldn’t blame her. She eyed the fruit bowl with curiosity and disgust. ‘You’re not going to eat that, are you?’

‘What? No! Sveta, really, what sort of man do you think I am?’

‘Well, I’m not at all sure. You hear all sorts of things.’ She pulled a face. ‘Each to their own, I suppose. It’s been … well, anyway, I must be going.’ She tightened her headscarf, and added, ‘But where’s its head?’

‘That is the oddest thing. I have no idea! My cats do not go out: they are far too valuable. So the perpetrator of this act was not my cat. I really don’t know why this creature was on my doorstep. Or who saw fit to alert me to it. Or how it met its end. Or where its head might be.’

‘It’s a mystery,’ said Sveta, pulling white faux gloves over hands that shook very slightly, and still eyeing the rabbit.

‘Yes. But not one that I find attractive. In fact, there have been a few things lately—’

‘Honestly, in other circumstances I would willingly stay and chat, but I have to go,’ she broke in. ‘I have a hair appointment.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Well, thank you for your help today. I think it went well, all things considered.’ He coughed and paused, but she did not respond. He would have to try harder. While she was far from perfect, he needed an assistant, and with bookings starting to come in for the new year, he needed one now, to get things in order. She would have to be charmed. ‘I hope you are, um, uninjured, by your experiences? I am sorry about the rabbit and the, er, consequences – I was trying to prevent Pericles from doing something he’d regret.’

Sveta’s mouth twisted, and she nodded, but again said nothing.

‘We have the whole of the autumn to rehearse, and I was very impressed by your … by your … determination, today.’ He struggled to find kind words. ‘So, if you are willing, I think we can be ready for the new year.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I think we can become a convincing magical act, if we rehearse. What do you say?’

She looked into the shadowed pools of his eyes, eyes that were so full of sadness, eyes that were asking her a question: could she, would she? He needed her, that was clear. She hesitated, and pursed her lips.

‘Very well.’

He smiled, the skin stretching over his cheekbones and making him look even more like a corpse.

‘Although I have to say, I won’t stand for any more funny business. And next time, I really insist – no chairs, and no cats!’

‘Yes, Sveta, very well. I think next Tuesday afternoon, at around four p.m., if you can spare the time, would give us a golden opportunity to perfect your … your fine performance under the saw? And I will try to make sure that the magical cabinet is ready for you by then. On reflection, I agree – we would be more “in character”, as you say, with the cabinet in use, and with the cats quartered in the kitchen, perhaps.’

Sveta suppressed a shudder at the thought of the kitten-infested cabinet, but said nothing. Instead, she opened her mouth as if to yawn, and ran her finger and thumb across the corners of her mouth – a movement originally designed to remove excess lipstick, but now a nervous habit. ‘I look forward to it,’ she said when she’d finished, her hamster-like face embellished with a smile.

After one more shriek and tussle as she spied Pericles perched on her hugely bulky brown handbag, she was gone, leaving only a vague impression of lily-of-the-valley and mothballs. Gor took a seat in his old armchair, stroked the worn leather of its familiar arms, and stared at the body of the rabbit. He would have to dispose of it somehow – but the rubbish chute did not seem fitting, and anyhow, it was blocked again. He’d better take it to the dacha and give it a proper burial in the soft, brown earth of his rambling vegetable patch. It would have to be tomorrow, though. Night was falling, dropping with the rain out of the lowering sky.

Usually, damp weather made Gor feel content. But not today. The drumming on the windows was making him uneasy, making it impossible for him to hear anything else. Still the rabbit lay in the fruit bowl, the cats circling on the floor below, tails raised like shark fins, their eyes disappearing as their faces creased into silent mews of desire. The rabbit would have to go now, he realised. He pulled himself out of the chair and headed for the kitchen, intent on finding some paper to wrap the body. Lightning flashed across the sky as he moved and he counted for the thunder clap: one-Yaroslavl, two-Yaroslavl, three-: a boom shook the apartment block. Only two kilometres away. It was odd to have a thunderstorm in the autumn: there had been no real heat today.

He gathered up the body and wrapped it in the brown paper, tying up the package with an abundance of string found in a kitchen drawer. He then placed it in the long-empty freezer compartment, so that it was out of the way of the marauding cats, and safe from the effects of decomposition.

Back in the living room Gor shut the old yellow curtains and pulled out the piano stool. He cracked each knuckle in turn, placed his fingers over the keys, closed his eyes and began a finger race up and down the notes. Today was no day for music – his quarry was the scales: every scale, every key, major, minor, arpeggios, contra-motion, two-three-four octaves. These were sets of notes that could only be one way. They held no surprises, and were beautiful in their perfection. He played until his fingers ached and his heart pounded. He played until he forgot about the rabbit, and the thunder, and the woman with the wobbly cheeks and the lipstick. He even forgot about the mewling kittens in the cabinet. His fingers burned and his hands began to shake as each scale and its every variation was practised, and mastered. He didn’t hear his downstairs neighbour knocking with a broom on his ceiling in disgust: for this was what baby-grand pianos were for.

He didn’t even hear the phone ringing, trilling on and on as the thunder crashed. Ringing with persistence. Ringing to be heard. Ringing as if somebody was desperate: desperate he should know they were there.

A Shiver in the Trees

The steaming tea was placed at his elbow just as before, but this time Vlad had brought a small parcel tucked under his arm. The old man’s teeth chattered with anticipation as he pulled away the brown paper. Within, there lay a nest of honey-brown buns, fragrant with ginger and cloves. They shone in the cold glow of the strip-light.

‘Pryaniki!’ Anatoly Borisovich clapped his hands. ‘How I love pryaniki! So very kind of you, Vlad! May I?’ Without waiting he took a bun from the top of the pile and stuffed it into his mouth, lips stretching around the splitting shards of icing. His eyes closed in rapture.

‘My landlady makes them,’ said Vlad, unable to look away, revolted and fascinated by the bun-induced ecstasy as pastry crumbs writhed in the old man’s mouth. ‘She bakes every night, for no one. I don’t eat them.’ He patted a hand on his lean stomach and smiled, shrugging. ‘So they’re always going spare.’ Vlad was determined to be business-like this time. They would get to the salient points quickly: this was research, with a purpose; he was a professional, and he needed only facts.

‘She takes good care of you?’ the old man grunted, ‘this landlady?’

Facts, facts, facts. Don’t get distracted, thought Vlad. ‘She washes and irons very well,’ he said. ‘And there is always good food. She’s lovely, really, but I don’t get much privacy. I can’t have my girlfriend round, for example. Anyway—’

‘And your family?’

‘Family?’

Anatoly Borisovich’s eyes slid from the second bun, which he was now pushing into his mouth, to Vlad’s grey eyes. ‘Family,’ he repeated with difficulty.

‘Oh.’ Vlad shrugged. ‘In the country, forty kilometres or so from here. Mother, sister: I see them on holidays. We’re not close. They’re not like me.’

‘No?’

Vlad perched on the visitor’s chair, heels bouncing against the worn lino of the floor, impatient to start. He ran an eye over his subject. He looked better today: there was less puffiness about his face, his eyes twinkled and the knobbled toes that poked from beneath the bedclothes were pink. It was a turn-around. Maybe having someone to talk to was doing him good? You could never tell with the elderly: that was one reason Vlad found them increasingly fascinating. He hadn’t imagined he would find gerontology interesting: his focus at the start of medical school had been purely the physical – the body, how it worked, how to make it stronger, how it collapsed. But the more he studied, and the more patients he met, the more absorbing he found their thoughts, their backgrounds, the sum of their lives. He hadn’t quite got the gist of how it all worked yet, but he was fascinated by the idea that he could influence those thoughts, to promote a change, and achieve a goal, through stimulation. Facts, facts, facts, thought Vlad, fiddling with his pen.

‘They’re farmers. They live on a collective, in the middle of nowhere. We’ve been apart a long time.’

‘How’s that?’

He definitely had a good appetite: a third bun was now disappearing within his cheeks.

‘I went to residential school: sport and science. Up in Rostov. I haven’t lived at the farm for ten years or more. I’ve been lucky.’

‘Sent away to school? How fascinating! And now you’re going to be a doctor, because you must help your fellow citizens!’

‘Well, I suppose … I was going to go for physics, but the girls in the medicine queue were much prettier.’

Anatoly Borisovich smiled as he chewed, and nodded. Surely the boy was joking?

‘But enough about me,’ said Vlad, ‘we’re here to talk about you.’

The old man was eyeing a fourth iced bun when a loud, low howl resounded in his belly. A steady diet of soft brown boiled things had left his digestion ill-prepared for food that was rich or easily identifiable.

‘Drink your tea, Anatoly Borisovich,’ directed Vlad with a smile as the old man clutched at his side and winced. ‘It will help them go down. There is no need to hurry. The pryaniki have no legs, they will not run away.’

‘That is good advice, thank you. Are you sure you won’t have one?’

‘No.’

‘No sweet things for athletes, eh?’

‘I’m no longer an athlete.’

‘Why not?’

‘Injury.’

‘Ah, a pity!’ Anatoly Borisovich tried a different tack. ‘If oral delights don’t interest you, what does?’

A steady green stare captured Vlad’s eyes and all other details of the old man’s face, including the smear of crumbs and the lattice of scars, melted away.

Vlad coughed. ‘Well, you know: sport, cars, girls. Money.’

‘That all sounds very … And how old are you, if you don’t mind so bold a question?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘You’re not married?’

‘Married?’ Vlad’s curls shivered as he laughed through his nose. ‘No. Like I said, I have a girl, she’s really … I really … Her name is Polly. She’s beautiful. And she loves me. But marriage is not a priority.’

‘So what is, tell me?’

‘Well, you know: a car, an apartment, textbooks, travel. And I want to buy shares, get into investment, but I lack capital …’

‘How romantic. And the arts, Vlad?’

‘The arts?’

‘What makes your heart soar? What makes you shiver with delight? What fills you with angels’ breath? A painting, a piece of music, a modern ballet perhaps, you’re an athlete, after all—’

Vlad thought for a moment. ‘BMW.’

‘BM-what?’

He snorted with a smile. ‘It’s a make of car. Big engines, broad.’ His hands shaped the car in the air. ‘Leather seats; German engineering.’

‘German? I see.’ Anatoly Borisovich nodded and turned his gaze to the lone pine on the horizon. ‘Drawing is my particular love. I find it deeply calming. I can lose myself for days … I spent my life in illustration. They gave me a beautiful watch when I retired – a Poljot, the Soviet Union’s best. I believe it’s in here.’ He turned to open the drawer of the bedside cabinet but it jarred, the cabinet rocking on its feet as he tugged.

‘Don’t worry, Anatoly Borisovich, show me another time. We really should—’

‘I keep asking them for crayons and paper, Vlad. I know it would do me good. You know it would do me good. But they shrug and tell me maybe tomorrow … I need to get my thoughts straight. I am hoping to be discharged, you see, before the frosts set in. I might go south – the Caucasus, maybe, or further. Somewhere warm – Angola …’

‘Angola?’ Vlad stifled a laugh and glanced at his watch. ‘That’s as maybe. But Matron won’t refer you to the doctors for sign-out until she’s had “consistently good reports”, will she? Like at school, you remember? And at the moment your reports are not consistently good. So, that’s what we must work towards.’

‘Oh yes, I remember our little school. That’s lovely to remember! I received a rosette. Baba pinned it to the wall. She was very proud. And so was I. It was for drawing.’

‘Good. So, perhaps if you are ready … You were telling me on Tuesday, back in Siberia, you lived with your baba, that is, your grandmother …?’ Vlad referred to his notes lying in scratchy blue lines across the notepad and read as the old man began humming.

‘You were telling me about the thing that made you afraid. The boys at school told you to close your eyes and cross your fingers if you heard the moth boy at the window? Remember?’

‘Baba?’ the old man burped quietly. ‘Oh, I know what happened to Baba! I remember! It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t me! Don’t blame me!’ His voice rose to a shriek and the feet under the covers began to kick.

‘I’m not! My dear Anatoly Borisovich, don’t get agitated! I’m sorry. I was just trying to move us along. I’ll say no more. Just let the words flow. As you want to tell it.’

The old man slurped from his cup, but said nothing.

‘Your grandmother told you that she’d seen something, or dreamt something … she talked of the shaman, and a boy going out into the forest …’

‘The moth boy and the moon!’ Anatoly Borisovich leant forward, coughing with the effort and scattering pryaniki crumbs over the bed. He wagged a short, fat finger in Vlad’s face, so close it grazed his nose. ‘It wasn’t just talk, it wasn’t a story. There was a creature – in the woods.’

‘Did you see it? What did it look like?’ The joints of the chair cracked like frosted wire as Vlad leant forward, and his pen wobbled the words ‘imagination, or hallucination – childhood psychosis?’ on his notepad. He forgot about drilling for facts. ‘Go ahead! Talk!’

Tolya’s favourite chore was sweeping the yard. Baba stood at the doorway watching him as he stumbled around, twig broom in hand, running after the blackened, soggy leaves, chuckling to himself as the wind threw them in the air around his head. He tried to catch them, as if they were butterflies and the broom a net, scattering gravel and laughter as he went. Lev followed at a slower pace, flicking his tail this way and that and occasionally mouthing a low woof. Baba clucked her tongue and left them to it.

The leaves danced around Tolya’s head and he dropped the broom, arms outstretched, pink fingers curling into the air, feeling the swell of the breeze pushing out of the pine forest across his corner of the earth. The world felt mysterious. How many thousands of kilometres had the wind come, and where was it going? What was it carrying, this rush of air: whose voices, animal or human? What smells were being swept around the pine trunks, over the streams and rocks, across the bed of brown needles and stumpy cones that covered the forest floor? Lev raised his head and sniffed the air, blind to all but the visions brought to him by his black, wet nose. Tolya did the same.

‘What is it, boy? A bear? A wolf? A wood spirit?’ Tolya crowned the dog with a handful of mashed leaves. ‘You and me, we are hunters.’ He imagined jumping over the fence into the trees, leaping from the branches onto that fragrant carpet of needles and tumbling into the wooded gloom, deeper into the forest, where the only sound was you and the crunch of twigs beneath your feet. He would hunt down the smells, the voices, the history. He would hunt down the shaman. He would track him to his hut hidden in the gloom and tell him about Stalin. No need for magic now, comrade shaman. We, you and me, we are Communism! We have the new magic, in Stalin’s word. It will cure our ills, and keep us safe. Your forest belongs to us all now. Tolya gripped the top of the gate and stared out into the trees, looking for movement.

‘Come on, Tolya!’ cried Baba from the porch, ‘there’s work to be done. Where’s your broom, eh? Forgotten on the ground, and Lev is going to chew it up – watch out!’

Tolya knew damage to the broom would be punished and jumped down from the gate to retrieve it. The trees sighed and waved. He was lucky he had trees to look at, and not some neighbour’s house. Take Comrade Goloshov, for example: if his house was opposite Comrade Goloshov’s, all he would see would be an old man with a red nose sitting by the window all winter and on his porch all summer. And his house smelled funny, like the inside of Lev’s ears.

He looked down the track towards the village. Smoke straggled from every crooked chimney. Chernovolets was little more than one road lined with wooden houses on each side, all higgledy-piggledy, not a straight line between them. To Tolya, it seemed a busy, people-filled place – after all, there was a school, and a shop, and a village hall, his auntie and uncle – even a doctor. The houses were ancient: indeed, not one was under fifty years old. The climate moulded the dwellings: the wooden walls and floors gradually bowed and buckled and sank in on themselves, producing façades as individual as the faces of the tenants. This was his village: four thousand kilometres east of Moscow, and home to five hundred and eighty-nine people, various chickens, some dogs, cats, rats, a few pigs, a riot of boys and girls, and a bucketful of stories and myths. Baba called his name. He leant the broom on the fence and joined her at the well.

‘When will Papa be back?’ he asked as they drew the water up.

‘Late. He’s busy.’ The words came out like whacks of an axe as she puffed. When they’d finished with the water she added, ‘Comrade Stalin needs more paper, to print more information, and for that the paper mill needs more trees, and for that Papa needs to work more, to make sure the trees are ready and the paper gets made. Otherwise he gets in trouble. It’s all in the plan, and we don’t want any trouble.’

‘Baba, will I work in the forest when I’m grown up? Is that in the plan?’

She laughed and wiped finger trails on her apron. ‘Well, Tolya, I don’t know. Maybe.’ Kind eyes crinkled under a frown.

‘That’s good. I like trees.’

‘Boy, it’s hard work. You’ve seen Papa when he gets home: he can hardly walk. You won’t have much time to like trees if you work in the forest. You’ll be cutting them up.’

‘But it’s good work, Baba?’

‘It’s work. But you … you’re different, Tolya. You’re not like your papa. With your drawing and your writing, and all that …’

‘But I could do it!’

‘I’m sure, I’m sure, my treasure,’ she said, smiling at him suddenly, the cracks in her face deepening. ‘But we’ll see. They’re moving people out here to help with the work. Outsiders, from Moscow, and out that way.’

‘Really? I’ve not seen any, Baba.’ Tolya was intrigued by the idea of outsiders: what did they look like? What did they smell like? What language did they speak? Would their children go to his school?

‘They don’t live in the villages. They are kept to themselves: they have their own camps.’

‘Our teacher told us about Pioneer camps, where children go for holidays if they’ve been very good. Are they like that?’

‘Something like that, son, something like that …’ Baba turned away and headed off back to the cottage, shaking her head. Tolya patted Lev on his soft, brown neck and tugged at his ears.

‘Hard work, Lev-chik, hard work is required! We will work hard, and Comrade Stalin will be pleased, and say thank you to us! We will make him proud. That’s what Papa does, and that’s what we will do.’ He looked around the yard with a critical eye. ‘Where’s the broom? There are leaves in the yard, and we must get them all! Every one! Not one leaf will be left!’ He grabbed the broom and darted around the yard, chasing down the leaves and pushing them into the black wooden bucket.

Dusk quilted the trees, blurring their outlines as Tolya waddled about, pretending the leaves were goats and he was herding them. Baba had lit a lamp and it glowed orange in the window, but still Tolya stayed out. He was bending down, talking to himself and stuffing handfuls of leaves into the bucket, when a crackling sound, close by in the trees, made him stop. Something heavy had moved. Between his legs, looking back towards the house, he could see Lev. The dog was no longer snuffling around the feed bin. Instead he stood rock still, ears clamped to his skull and tail tucked between his legs. He was staring past Tolya into the trees. The wind disappeared, and for a moment all there was in the world was silence, and the thud of his own heartbeat.

A snap shot into the air and the blood surged in Tolya’s veins. He swallowed and dropped the two fistfuls of leaves to the sodden earth. Lev churned out a growl. The wind blew a flapping sound into Tolya’s ears: like sheets on a line, or maybe wings.

With eyes squeezed shut he drew himself upright, fingers crossed like the boys had said. He began to pray to Stalin for help. Before he’d got a word out, Lev’s bark ricocheted off the trees, snapping Tolya’s eyes back open. He stared into the gloom, groping in the darkness, dreading to see, but unable to turn away. At any moment, he knew, moth boy, with the throbbing, hairy thorax and wavering antennae, would reach out for him. For a moment he saw nothing but leaves and clouds and shadows. Then, among the lower branches of the nearest pine, something stirred.

Floating in the darkness there was a face, sharp and pale, with black-ringed eyes that glowed like fireflies. A human face? Maybe … he could make out two arms, perhaps, or were they wings? They flapped against the figure’s sides as it hovered in the undergrowth. Tolya raised his chin. He should be brave. He should protect Baba. He was about to speak when he saw the figure was not looking at him at all: its eyes reflected the lamp, in the house. It was looking past him. It might not even have seen him. He took a step backwards, then another, and felt the wall of the well behind his heel. The creature did not react. He couldn’t go backwards all the way to the house. But if he turned and ran, it might give chase, swooping onto his neck with talons sharp as knives. What if it caught him, or worse, followed him in? He creased his eyes towards the cottage, face taut. The thing in the woods began flapping again, and a gurgle spewed from its mouth, somewhere between laughter and choking.

‘What are you?’ Tolya called out, his voice small and frightened against the wind.

It did not reply, but hunched down, almost hidden in the shadows.

‘You can’t hide! I’ve seen you! And … and I have a fierce dog! Baba will be out any minute. She knows about the old ways, and she won’t be scared! She’ll give you a good hiding!’

There was no reply. Tolya could see nothing, but Lev knew more, and a growl shuddered through him. A twig snapped not three metres from Tolya. He turned and fled, dashing on ship-wrecked legs back to the house as a tempest of barking filled his ears.

‘Baba, Baba, there’s something in the trees!’ He burst through the door. ‘A spirit! Moth boy! He’s flapping in the trees – I saw him!’

She was busy, knife in hand, a pile of bloody bones resting on the table in front of her. ‘What are you on about, boy? I’ve bones to boil, and you’re shrieking about spirits?’ A pot was already bubbling on the stove. ‘And look at this kindling – it won’t split itself!’ Baba jabbed her knife towards the stack of wood in the corner. ‘You and your stories—’

‘Really Baba, I really, really saw it! Look: Lev is still out there, he won’t come in! He’s growling at it. It’s in the trees! Look!’

He grabbed Baba’s arm and tugged her towards the window. She pulled away from his grip.

‘I see nothing, boy. Get the dog in. If he gets in the forest we won’t see him for a week.’

‘But he won’t come, Baba!’ cried Tolya, desperate. ‘Please!’

‘Akh!’ she spat, and grabbed up the lantern from the windowsill. Together they hurried out into the yard. ‘Lev! Come!’ shouted Baba, but the dog was at the gate, intent on the trees, still growling, ears back and dagger teeth shining. Baba made towards him with swift strides but stopped short at the well, head cocked to one side, sniffing the air.

‘It’s there, Baba!’ Tolya pointed into the darkness, where the eyes had glowed and the arm-wings had flapped. She said nothing, but held the lantern higher. Still Lev snarled, front paws coming off the ground in fierce jerks.

‘Show yourself!’ she bit out at last. ‘We know you’re there.’

Nothing stirred but the wind and the leaves.

‘No harm will come to you, that I promise. We are good folk.’

Tolya looked up at her, questions bubbling to his lips.

‘Hush!’ she commanded.

Lev growled, then split the dusk with a volley of barks.

In the darkness below the pines, a greyness rose, shaking the air like a mirage. A wretched, flapping, scarecrow figure emerged, cloaked in rags; an apparition as thin as paper, filmy like the skin on a pond. Baba eyed it carefully, frowning and squinting, and clicked her tongue, muttering under her breath.

‘Come closer, come here in the light – slowly, mind!’

The figure flickered, taking form out of the green and grey, solidifying from apparition to …

‘You’re no spirit. There’s no magic at work here,’ she said to Tolya, and then more loudly. ‘You’re no moth, are you? Who are you?’

The apparition moved closer, and in the soft light of the lantern, Tolya could see it was, in fact, just a boy. Older than him, taller, maybe sixteen or seventeen, but thin and strange. The boy stood still a while, then slowly raised his hands and flapped them in front of his face, in and out, in and out. Yellow-white teeth like standing stones split his mouth in a strange grin.

‘Hey!’ shouted Baba, and the flapping stopped. He shivered, round eyes standing out from skin as pale as milk, as pale as the moon. He reached out a hand, emaciated and ground with dirt, as if to touch the rays from the lantern in Baba’s hand. ‘Come closer!’ she said. ‘Come see! We won’t hurt you.’

The boy shuffled through the long brown grass until he stood at the fence on the edge of the yard. Again the hand reached out to the lantern, and this time gently tap-tap-tapped on the glass.

‘Baba!’ whispered Tolya, eyes round.

‘Who are you?’ asked Baba.

‘Yuri,’ answered the boy, his voice coming slowly to his lips, stilted and hoarse, pushed out on a sigh.

‘Where are you from, Yuri?’

The boy said nothing, and simply pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the forest.

‘Where are your people?’

The boy shrugged and stared at the lamp.

‘Are you hungry?’

He reached out slowly with the same emaciated hand, and nodded. His gaze hadn’t left the lamp, but Tolya saw his eyes were never still, flickering across-across-across as he looked into the light.

‘Is warm, your house?’ Yuri asked suddenly, smiling his strange toothy grin as his eyes oscillated in their sockets.

Lev sniffed at the boy’s calves, jaws hanging open, but made no sound.

‘It’s warm. And you are welcome.’

‘No, Baba! He scares me!’ Tolya pulled on her arm, but she flicked him off with an angry glance.

‘Quiet, Tolya! Come, we’ll have some broth, and you can warm yourself by the stove, Yuri.’ Baba’s eyes were watchful, and she peered in every direction as she strode back towards the cottage. Over the yard a silver moon rose, bright as a frozen sun, bathing the boys in its cold, blue light – one flapping, and one creeping behind.

The forest sighed, and wood smoke rose to meet the heavens.

‘Anatoly Borisovich!’

A jolt thumped through his chest. Strong hands clamped his shoulders and his head snapped back and forth.

‘Wha—? Who— oh!’ The shaking stopped. Green eyes stared into grey.

‘Did I fall asleep?’ Wings were flapping in his mind, shifting memories like leaves in the wind.

‘Yes,’ said Vlad, releasing his grip and easing himself back into the visitor’s chair. ‘I thought maybe … Well, you gave me a fright. You stopped talking and made a choking sound, like you couldn’t breathe. Like you were …’

‘Sleep, Vlad. There’s nothing to fear in sleep. It brings relief. You’ll learn that, as you get older.’

Vlad snorted and slowly smoothed the blankets across the old man’s bed.

‘Maybe so. But I’m glad it was just a … nap.’

‘I must sleep more. But I feel we made progress, don’t you?’

‘Well …’ Vlad pushed the chair onto its two back legs and regarded the old man with a small smile. ‘I can’t really see it, myself. Hearing about your childhood in Siberia is very interesting, and I can see that just talking, just reliving things, is making you feel better. There’s colour in those cheeks, Anatoly Borisovich!’ The old man returned his smile with a grin. ‘But I need to know about your breakdown in September, and I’m still interested in those scars, for my case study. I have to write a report on you – for my medical degree, and for your best interests.’ He leant close to the old man’s face, seeking his eyes. ‘And my report can’t really be about your babushka and Lev, and this moth boy, can it? Do you understand?’

‘Ah.’ Anatoly Borisovich’s hand floated up to his face and his fingers felt into the relief of his cheek, following the crevices and smooth patches: the map of his past. ‘But it’s all related … you need to understand … family …’

As the old man spoke, the kindly orderly appeared in the doorway.

‘You’re wanted,’ she said to Vlad with a coquettish grin, ‘in the office. It’s your girl again, and I think she’s in a temper!’

‘Blin,’ said Vlad, looking at his watch. He lurched from the visitor’s chair, its feet squealing sharply across the floor. ‘I’m going to be late.’

‘Tsk! Even with your fancy imported watch?’ She shook her head with a laugh and walked away up the corridor.

Anatoly Borisovich pulled a face as he closed his eyes. ‘Your girl is cross. That won’t do.’

‘I think it’s all the stress! I thought a date would be different, but she’s …’ Vlad sighed, grabbing up his pens and paper.

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Palace of Youth.’

The old man grunted. ‘You’d better go then!’ His shoulders shook momentarily with silent laughter. ‘But come back,’ he gurgled eventually, ‘as soon as you can, and I will tell you all: everything you want to hear! We will get your case study complete!’

He sank back on the pillows, feeling as if he had been sweeping the yard all day, catching the leaves above his head and breaking the ice on the well with his knuckles; exhilarated, and exhausted.

‘Very well. But listen, please.’ Vlad’s voice was hurried. ‘I will bring more pryaniki next time, or a cake perhaps?’ Anatoly Borisovich opened an eye. ‘Cake? You like cake? OK, so next time there will be cake, and you will get to the point, and answer some questions, and we will both be happy.’ He turned for the door, and then looked back. ‘You’ve spent almost the entire session talking about leaves and trees today, Anatoly Borisovich, and it won’t do: they’re not what caused your breakdown, are they? I need to know about you. I’ll be back when I can.’ The door slammed.

The blinds were still up. In the distance, Anatoly Borisovich could make out the lone tree beyond the fence shifting in the wind, its branches outstretched, shivering.

A knock at the door accompanied the scrape of its opening.

‘Do you need the toilet?’

It was the grumpy orderly.

‘No, thank you. But I would like some paper and crayons.’

‘Matron said no: said it might excite you.’ The orderly stomped towards him and held out a small steel cup filled with a viscous green liquid. ‘Drink this, and settle down. You shouldn’t get excited. That Vladimir shouldn’t be exciting you. He’s only a student.’

‘Maybe so. But talking … is much better medicine than this.’ He took the cup and swirled its contents. She drew down the blinds with a clang.

‘Come on, drink up! I’ve got others to be seeing to,’ she snapped, returning to stand over him, hands on hips.

Anatoly Borisovich held his nose, gave the orderly a wink and gulped down the medicine. ‘I drank it all.’ He grinned. ‘Do I get a prize?’

‘There’s no need to snatch,’ he whispered, after she had slammed out of the room.

The Palace of Youth

‘My dear Gor!’

‘Good afternoon, Sveta.’

‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ She didn’t sound sorry. Her voice was warm and husky, like fresh rye bread.

‘That is quite all right.’ Gor frowned at the receiver.

‘But I wanted to know how you were.’

‘How I am? I am quite well.’

‘No ill effects at all? From the moth, the other night, I mean?’

Gor considered for a moment, and ran his tongue around his very clean teeth.

‘None,’ he said firmly. ‘All residue was swept away when I returned home. I have had no problems with my stomach, or anything else. All is well.’

‘That is good. I have to say, Albina insists it was nothing to do with her.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I believe her.’

‘Of course. We must all believe her. She is a child.’

‘Yes. So … I was curious. Well, not curious. I was worried … has anything else happened to you, since Tuesday?’

‘Since Tuesday?’

‘Since, since the moth incident.’

‘Of course, the usual has continued.’

‘The usual?’

‘The phone ringing out in the night. Generally around midnight, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.’

‘Do you answer it?’ Her voice was quick.

‘Occasionally. I don’t know why.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. No one.’

‘How odd. Anything else? Any other foodstuffs disappeared?’

‘Thankfully, no.’ He paused. ‘But I got a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘A letter.’

‘Who from? What did it say?’

‘I did not read it.’ Gor did not want to discuss the letter, shoved into his mailbox down in the foyer. How had it been delivered? Not by the postal service, that was clear enough. Someone had got in through the locked front door, delivered their message, and left. The dusty pot plants and the shiny brown floor tiles could tell him nothing. Baba Burnikova, nodding behind the desk, could also tell him nothing, apart from that a hand-delivered letter could not have come without her knowing. The empty courtyard, glistening with last night’s rain and a thousand snail trails, could tell him nothing. He had opened the letter there in the foyer, leaning against the solid mass of the radiator, warming the backs of his thighs as he read. His name and flat number had been written in a childish hand, no doubt to disguise the writer. Inside it contained six words in an ugly scrawl.

‘You didn’t read it? But it could have given us clues, Gor! It might have been a spirit letter!’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. It has gone down the chute.’

‘Oh dear!’

‘This is no criminal investigation, Sveta. It’s just some no-good hooliganism.’

‘Well, you were upset, no doubt. My news is good though – I have telephoned my contact.’

‘What contact?’

‘The psychic lady. Remember, I told you about her on Tuesday?’

Gor closed his eyes and swallowed before he spoke.

‘And?’

‘She can do it a week today.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is that too long? I’m afraid she is all booked up until then. Something to do with Greco-Roman wrestling at the Elderly Club. I couldn’t really tell: she can be a little vague on the telephone.’

‘No, no, that is very good. Next Friday it is. I do hope you haven’t gone to a lot of trouble on my account, Sveta, I’m really not—’

‘No trouble! I want to help. And Madame Zoya can certainly help us divine what, exactly, is going on here. She has a marvellous gift.’

‘Quite.’

There was a pause.

‘You sound low. Like you need cheering up.’

‘I am quite cheery.’

He grimaced into the mirror by the telephone table, baring his teeth in an attempt at a smile. It looked more like a snarl. He could almost scare himself with those eyes and teeth.

‘Come to the theatre with us!’ Sveta’s voice bounced off his eardrum. For a moment he was speechless.

‘Wh … what?’

‘I just … well … you seem sad, Gor, and lonely, and well, Albina is in a dance show, with lots of girls and boys from school, and she asked specifically if you could come, and I thought, well, why not? It will be fun! And there’s a craft show going on in the foyer at the same time. And pensioners get in for free.’ Her voice crumbled to quiet as she reached the end of the sentence. A long pause followed.

‘Hello?’ whispered Sveta.

‘That is kind of you, Sveta, to think of me.’

‘It’s the least I can do, after giving you such a scare with that nasty sandwich. You’ll come?’

‘Very well: I shall be pleased to escort you both to the show. What day, and at what time?’

‘Ah, hurrah! Albina will be so pleased! It is actually tonight, at seven thirty p.m., at the Palace of Youth.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes!’

‘At the Palace of Youth?’

‘You know where it is? Just past the circus, and then the bus station, but before you get to the brick factory. It’s opposite Bookshop No. 3.’

‘No. 3? Where they sell stationery and records?’

‘That’s the one.’ Sveta took a breath. ‘You’re not busy, no?’

Gor looked at the cats, the piles of music, his lunch tray still lying beside his armchair.

‘No, I’m not busy. But I can’t promise to be good company.’

‘Your presence is company enough! We shall not burden you with conversation if it’s not welcome, dear Gor! Albina will be so pleased. She is not so confident in dance, and it will be nice for her to have the extra support!’

Gor nodded and said his goodbyes and, looking up in the hallway mirror, noticed the vague shadow of a smile playing across his face. The calendar on the wall behind him winked. The smile faded, his face became set, and he stalked off to the bedroom, avoiding gambolling kittens as best he could, to select a clean shirt for the evening.

He didn’t feel like driving, so took a trolleybus as far as the centre of town, and then walked.

Long strides brought him quickly from the central crossroads to the wide boulevard named after Mayakovsky, where milk-bars and furniture shops turned wide, hungry eyes on trudging shoppers and workers. He averted his gaze from the windows and the price tags. He hurried on, away from town, heading past the circus, which shone like paste jewellery half-way up the hill. Round, almost majestic, its curved concrete walls were bathed in jagged, multi-coloured reflections thrown by the glass of its windows. It looked like a space-age Colosseum with a giant Frisbee for a roof. Gor took in its curves and its permanence as he hurried on. He had heard that, years before, circuses had been travelling affairs, housed in huge tents borne by troupes of gypsies from town to town. They entertained the masses, taking stories and characters from place to place, fertilising minds and more with ideas and characters picked up and scattered across the continent from the Baltic to the Sea of Okhotsk. For generations, travelling circuses had roamed like this, tossing ideas like seeds on the wind. But Stalin didn’t like it. The travelling circus meant danger. He ordered permanent circuses to take their place in all major towns, staffed by troupes trained in state circus schools. So circuses were tamed: tethered in one place, telling one, state story, and doing one show … the one that Stalin liked. They were cleansed of magic and mystery, and made safe for the masses. No more tents and ideas blowing in the wind; no more transience. The circus was castrated, to become a harmless eunuch, no danger to anyone.

Gor had no love of the circus. He could not abide a white-faced clown or a leering, drug-addled lion. It was all fake, all manufactured, with a predictability that bored him rigid.

He snorted as he passed the queue snaking out of the door. He shook his head and tutted, but despite himself, remembered a night more than twenty years before, when he’d been there, to this very building, and laughed. How he’d laughed. Not at the miserable animals and their antics, nor at the lackey clowns, but at his own daughter as she sat beside him, her face a delight as each act had unfolded. Such a young life: such a happy child. He had loved the circus that night, because she had loved it; little Olga. A smiling face in the queue caught his eye and he glowered, turning away sharply. He huddled his shoulders further into his coat, and quickened his steps. The circus was rot.

He came to a halt outside what he surmised was the Palace of Youth. It was not a place he had been before. Great columns rose from the crumbling wash of the pavement to hold a canopy of dark grey concrete above windows that shone with a fizzing orange glow on Azov’s youth. An abundance of small girls with buns and huge pom-poms flocked in and out of the lights in front of the building, their anxious mamas in tow, blocking the doorway and holding up the traffic as they alighted from buses and communal taxis. They were a myriad fluff-encrusted fledgling birds, shrieking and dashing, peppering words with pi-pi-pi noises as they came and went through the warped double-doors. Gor stood very still, towering above the faeries and their mothers, silent, grey, dark. He held his arms stiffly by his sides and every so often made a little hopping movement to one side or the other, attempting to avoid a collision. Still they flocked, an occasional mama looking up at him with startled concern as she steered her charge away from his shins and elbows. They seethed and rolled around him, a throng of girls in pink and white, chattering like sea-gulls. Gor’s brow began to sweat.

‘Gor! Coo-eee! There you are!’ Sveta came breaking through the crowd like a steam tug, dragging an unwilling and extraordinarily gangly Albina in her wake. The girl bumped off every available surface, tangling limbs with her ballet-dancing colleagues, the tiny speckled waifs crumpling to the floor as Albina bobbed past in her grubby moon-boots, walrus grey. Her hair was piled into an elaborate bun, much like a nest. Gor smiled to the ladies and held out his hands in greeting. They drew together in the sea of fluff.

‘Good evening, Sveta. Good evening, Albina. I am glad to see you! But whatever is the matter?’

‘I don’t want to do it! Don’t make me! Please!’

Together they ploughed through the dancers, heading for the clogged doors. They pushed their way through with elbows held high and struck out for the cloakroom.

‘But I’ve come specially to see you, Albina,’ said Gor with some concern, as they took off their coats and handed them to the stout woman behind the counter. ‘I am sure you will be … spectacular.’ His goatee twitched as he attempted a kindly smile.

‘But I hate it, and I don’t feel well.’ She gripped her stomach under her bright blue jumper.

‘Now, now, petuchka, we’ve had all this at home. Gor has come here specially to see you dance, so don’t disappoint him. No one is going to laugh at you. I promise!’

‘But I can’t even see properly! My hair is in my eyes!’ said the girl, screwing up her face to squint around her.

‘Look, Albin-chik, there is your teacher, waving – see?’

The girl pretended she was unable to see and crashed heavily into yet another dancing nymph.

‘Now Albina, that is enough! Go over to Madam immediately, or I shall get cross. She needs you in the dressing room.’ Sveta’s brows were drawn into a tight furrow, and her eyes bulged. She was wearing blue eye-shadow and large amounts of mascara, Gor noticed with concern.

‘I hate you,’ Albina hissed.

Sveta blinked, sniffed, smiled brightly, and pushed the girl sharply between the shoulder-blades in the direction of her dance mistress.

‘She’s so glad you’ve come, Gor. And so am I. It is difficult, when we have no man around the house.’ She smiled up at him, eyes wide, and wiped imaginary lipstick marks from the corners of her raspberry red mouth. ‘Shall we take our seats? We’re in the balcony. I can’t wait!’

Gor stared after her receding form as she made her way up the glistening concrete steps. He frowned. He was not sure he should have come at all.

Row B2 was very full. The short battle to claim their seats combined with the damp heat of the auditorium brought a glow to Sveta’s cheeks and nose. Once roosted in her rightful place, she pulled out her compact to repair the damage and, angling it for a suitable light, spied the most beautiful man she had ever seen, sitting just behind her. A young man with curly brown hair, full lips and a strong, angular jaw. She wiggled her mirror for a bit more. She observed his neck: smooth pale skin stretched taut over muscular flesh, sporting what appeared to be a love-bite. She squinted and adjusted the mirror once more: his eyes were the clearest grey, framed by long, dark lashes, so sensitive … almost feminine. His gaze bounced off hers in the mirror, and she snapped it shut, almost bursting into a giggle. Here, just behind her, was a sentient statue straight from the olive groves of the Roman world: a living David-cum-Hercules. She stowed her mirror, and, after waiting a few seconds, turned her head to have a proper look. Yes, there he was, not more than a few metres from her, a living god bursting out of a cream-and-grey patterned roll-neck sweater. He must be a swimmer, she thought, or a gymnast, perhaps. He was reading the mimeographed programme and holding the hand of a dark-haired girl, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. Her face was turned away, dark locks hiding her expression, but Sveta could see a strong nose and her jaw, set firm. She felt her own brittle hair with her fingertips, and her small, soft chin. The man spoke and played his fingers through the tips of the girl’s hair as if to discover her face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I know how much it means to you.’

‘Oh really? I’m not sure you do. You’re just not trying hard enough!’ the girl replied loudly.

‘I’m doing my best,’ he said.

‘Well, you need to do more.’

His programme dropped to the floor, and Sveta turned back in her seat. She smiled to herself: young love could be hard work. She could well believe the gorgeous young man wasn’t trying hard enough.

Gor turned to her, humming a little tune, vague ‘pom-pom-poms’ escaping his mouth. He looked a little less severe than usual.

‘Isn’t this nice?’ She wiped imaginary lipstick from the corners of her mouth.

‘It is certainly different,’ he nodded, looking around the auditorium. ‘Such excitement! Such babble!’

The young couple behind her were still at loggerheads, now embarking on an exchange of urgent whispers. She sighed contentedly and turned her attention to the stage.

Fifty minutes later, Gor looked at his watch for the sixth time. They had so far endured ballet, folk dancing, a spot of folk singing, folk rock, some sort of modern expressionism, and something noisy and energetic that Sveta informed him was ‘disco’, beloved of black people in America. Gor harrumphed and expressed a hope that the black people in America performed it with more aplomb than the children of School No. 2 in Azov. At this point, Sveta had dug him in the ribs with her elbow, and tutted loudly.

Albina had looked miserable throughout her eight minutes of the modern expressionist segment. She was supposed to represent ‘technology’. Her hands had flailed and her feet had stumbled as she tried to convey the positive global outcomes of mechanisation. Things got worse when she caught her toe in a thread hanging from her costume. She wobbled and fell, crushing the white papier-mâché dove placed centre-stage to represent world peace.

‘Oh, that’s a poor omen,’ said Sveta, ‘I don’t think we want technology to do that, do we?’ She smiled a brave smile, and waved to her daughter as she stomped off stage, sniffing and carrying pieces of mashed dove.

At the interval, Sveta propelled Gor towards the ice-cream queue, where their stoical patience was eventually rewarded with a pair of stubby brown cornets. They were squished, chewy looking, each with a small paper disc stuck atop an ice-cream permafrost, becoming part of it. Sveta sucked hers off quickly and bit into the ice-cream, while Gor hesitated, looking perplexed, then applied long fingers to peel off the disc with a great deal of care. Sveta watched, strangely enthralled, as he took a tiny wooden spatula from his pocket and began to chip away the ice, flicking milk crystals onto the steps where they stood on the edge of the heaving foyer.

‘My teeth,’ he explained as he caught her gaze. ‘They are all my own, which I sometimes think is a disadvantage. Cold or hot, it can all be a problem.’ He curled his top lip to reveal fangs that went on and on, right up towards the base of his nose, almost like those of a rodent. Sveta shuddered and looked away, straight into the dark eyes of the Roman god’s girl. She was staring at her, across the room, really looking at her this time – with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

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