Two Cousins of Azov

‘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.’