After two bad nights and an empty, lonely day, Vlad came back. He launched into the room on a Sunday afternoon, all energy and muscle, smelling wholesomely of baking and washing powder, grey eyes bright under his mop of dark hair. He stood by the door a moment, observing the kindly orderlys backside as she leant forward to replace the notes at the end of the bed.
Come in, come in! Dont stand on ceremony! Is that for me?
Vlad laid before him a folded newspaper in which reposed a voluptuous serving of creamy torte Napoleon. Anatoly Borisovich licked his lips.
Well how lovely! Excitement made the words jump. What a treat!
She was thumping about in the kitchen half the night making that. I told her about you, you see. And then I couldnt sleep, she was making so much noise. A lot of work, apparently! He was walking around the end of the bed, talking to Anatoly Borisovich, but his eyes were mostly on the orderly, slipping to her bosom as she pressed past him on her way out.
Nice jumper, she said.
Italian wool. Feel it.
He offered her his arm to touch. She trailed her fingers across it, the cracked skin snagging on the fine knit.
Lovely. Must have been expensive? Her lips twitched as she pushed through the doorway, not waiting for his reply.
The old man found himself frowning, mouth open, but didnt know why. Vlad turned to him, and he pushed his cheeks into a grin.
Well, I do appreciate it! Look at this! He raised the paper to his face to inspect its contents more closely, fingers scooping up the layers of fluffy, fragile pastry enveloped in rich yellow custard. Delight dropped into his mouth and he savoured it, eyes closed, indulging the sweetness with every cell of his tongue, the sugar saturating his being and making his teeth itch. The clatter of the blinds going up brought him back to the moment. The weather is against us today, Vlad. It wont be long until the first frost. But the heating is working again. It has quite a gurgle.
Vlad did not sit down but paced the room, twisting on his heel with a fierce squeak as he did so. He stopped by the bedside.
Is something wrong? Anatoly Borisovich stilled his hand half-way to his mouth.
No! He squealed away, pacing the other side of the bed as Anatoly Borisovich chewed. Again he stopped and looked at his watch, its face the size of a field mushroom.
Eat your fill. Im just a bit Well He grabbed the visitors chair and whirled it round to sit on it backwards, thumping his buttocks down onto the worn plastic. The old man winced.
Thank you, Anatoly Borisovich!
What for? Eating cake?
For agreeing to take part in my study. It really is good of you. Lets get started!
But Im still eating! The old man fired out crumbs with the words, studding Vlads midnight jumper with a hundred creamy stars. You cant hand a man a plate of torte Napoleon and expect a miracle! This is so good. Are you sure you dont want to try? He held out the paper and Vlad recoiled. Please give my compliments to your landlady, she is a huge culinary talent. And you are a lucky boy! He stopped to smack his lips and dabbed at a trickle of dribble with his fingers. Vlad checked his watch, wiped custard specks from its face and, tutting, took it off, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.
Very good, Anatoly Borisovich. I will talk, you will listen. Yes, and eat, thats fine. But to remind you: today is our third meeting. I need to get writing my case study. So what I need to know is what happened to bring you to this place. OK? Thats all. A clear indication of what set off your Collapse? Breakdown? Dementia? Which phrase do you think best suits your symptoms?
I dont care.
Very well. I have a theory well, a few different theories, to be honest about what is afflicting you, but I need more facts. And then, well, hopefully I can help you to go home. You want that, dont you?
Anatoly Borisovich could not, as yet, remember where home was, but he nodded enthusiastically.
So, let us begin.
Vlad cleared his throat and sat upright with pen poised, a serious look on his face.
Anatoly Borisovich sighed. You are behaving oddly, he said eventually. Whats wrong?
Vlad ground the pen nib into the blank page.
Nothing is wrong, I
So whats the hurry? He scooped more torte Napoleon into his mouth, and then sucked each finger.
The pen flipped into the air and landed under the bed.
I its just Vlad scratched the back of his head viciously. The exams are approaching, and Im worried. I still have a lot of work to finish.
Exams? Is that so? Anatoly Borisovich chewed thoughtfully. The wind rattled the window.
Its not just the exams. Vlad leapt from the chair and took up pacing. Polly and I
Polly? Again a fistful of torte paused in the air.
My girlfriend.
Ah, oh yes.
You probably wouldnt understand. She is also a student. Shes very stressed. It makes her very demanding. I think shes a little anyway, I dont know what to do
Youre right, I wouldnt understand, the old man agreed and mumbled more cake into his cheek. This really is quite delicious. Delectable!
Is it? Vlads breathing was ragged, his expression pained.
Their eyes met.
You do, Vlad, what is right. Its very simple. Trust your heart.
Right. He stared at the lone pine tree as Anatoly Borisovich chewed laboriously. Modern life, Anatoly Borisovich, is not so simple. If only you understood He shook himself, and issued a dazzling smile. Anyway, we must finish today. Your story
Yes, my story. So, where were we, let me recap?
Oh Vlad sat back in the visitors chair and rested his head in his hands.
Yes, yes, I think wed met me, and Lev, and Baba
And the moth boy, Vlad added quickly and loudly, without raising his head.
Yes! Oh yes. Yuri moth boy! So you do believe me! Anatoly Borisovich chuckled, and turned his eyes to the horizon. He came out of the forest. He was real, you know.
If you say so. But has anything else come back to you?
Oh, it all came back to me. The day they brought me in here. It was all there, in fragments, like a ripped-up letter. Ive put it back together, talking to you.
Thats very good, Anatoly Borisovich. Vlad nodded and smiled, hope glinting in his eyes. So you remember, now, the day you came in? What preceded it?
Not really. You see, its moth boy hes pushed everything else out.
I dont understand.
Neither do I. But lets pretend we do?
Finish your story, Anatoly Borisovich. Just finish your story. Vlad ran a hand over his eyes.
Yuri followed Tolya and Baba into the cottage, hesitant at first, nervous of Levs friendly, soft-pawed attention. He huddled by the stove for an hour or more, leaning against its warmth, his ill-fitting, pock-marked skin gradually blossoming from ice to milk to a soft honey hue. He crossed his arms over his chest each time Lev passed by to sniff at his boots, and said little. Occasionally he stood, as if drawn to the light of the lamps, intent on moving towards them, flapping his arms, his hands wavering at shoulder height. All the time he was smiling to himself, a secret smile, thought Tolya, while his teeth chattered.
Tolya helped Baba start the soup before taking a seat on the other side of the stove, observing the new creature from a safe distance.
Are you a spirit? he whispered, curiosity getting the better of fear. He wanted to look into Yuris face, to see what mysteries lay there, but couldnt hold his gaze: the boys eyes shivered in their orbits, seldom settling on any object apart from the lamps. This wasnt a proper boy. But he wasnt a moth either. Whatever he was, it seemed to Tolya that Yuri wasnt interested in him. Yuri wasnt his friend. Just like the boys at school.
Hey! Tolya tried again, whispering fiercely and prodding Yuris leg with the poker. Are you a moth? Just say!
Moth! Moth moth, repeated the boy in his husky voice, not looking at Tolya, but instead leaning down to peer at the fire in the stove.
He is a moth! He said so! Tolya shrank back from the other boy as Baba clucked indifferently. Still Yuris hands shivered and flapped around his face as he smiled.
Tolya, come help me with these bowls. Yuri! She waited for the older boy to raise his head. Out of the corners of his eyes he scanned the table, Baba and the bowls, back and forth. Heres some broth for you. Come to the table! Come now! She spoke loudly, beckoning with her hands.
Yuri pressed himself to the warmth of the stove for a second, and then shuffled over to the rough wooden bench, opposite Tolyas place. Baba was still ladling out soup when his hands curved around the nearest bowl and he raised it to his lips. Tolya stared in disbelief.
Hey! Steady boy! Youll scald your gullet! Use a spoon, boy, use a spoon! Babas words shot around his head and Yuri looked dazed, the bowl still in his hands, half-way to his lips. He smiled.
Spoom, he repeated, voice thick and eyes blank, and then, with recognition, Spoom!
Spoon, said Tolya, forehead creasing. The word is spoon!
Like this! Baba bid Tolya demonstrate. He lifted the spoon to his lips and noisily sucked up the soup.
A laugh erupted from Yuri, loud and uncontrolled, full of joy.
What is he laughing at?
They dont use spoons where you come from then, eh? Baba chuckled, ignoring Tolyas question.
Where does he come from, Baba?
Shhh!
But why is it funny?
The boy picked up a spoon and, with great concentration, dipped it into the broth and then manoeuvred it to his mouth. He did it twice more. Soup splashed around the table in puddles as he slurped and coughed, barley grains showering the air. He laughed and choked with a gurgle, soup shooting out of his nose.
Eh, Yuri, maybe your way is better for you? Just wait until its a bit cooler. Baba took away the spoon. Again, he went to lift the bowl to his mouth and Baba laid her hand on his arm to slow him down.
No! he shrieked, pulling free, his eyes on her, round and defiant, before they returned to the bowl in front of him.
You were going to hurt yourself! Baba shook her grey head and clucked her tongue, but she hadnt taken offence. Tolya frowned into his broth as Yuri licked the spillage from the table, strange yelping noises of enjoyment, half animal, half human, escaping him as he did so.