He looked at his boots and pulled the shopping bag higher on his shoulder. He was in need of a soft-boiled egg a crossword tea Tchaikovsky. And maybe, yes, maybe a chat with Sveta. Maybe he didnt have to wait until the rehearsal. Maybe he could give her a ring. He could ring to discuss the mild weather, and the order of rehearsal, or the situation in Chechnya, or a recipe for borscht. Perhaps he would do that. He hurried for the trolleybus stop.
The Princess
Polly studied her reflection in the window. There were grey smudges beneath her wide, black eyes, and her cheekbones shone sharp white against the frame of her hair. It had been a late night and an early morning. She wouldnt be surprised if shed caught a cold; it was getting late in the year to be making out on park benches till midnight, after all.
She hadnt really had much choice. Vlad had been so full of himself, of long words and crowing exclamations and full-blown doctor-bluster; shed had to stay. Hed repeated to her, almost word for word, the story the old man had told him, and his conclusions on his health. She hadnt asked any questions at all. Moth boy, the burning cottage, the sparks in the night sky, the ravaged faces of the family and neighbours; all had been presented to her in tableau, and shed had a good look as she shivered. People were wrong when they said vodka warmed you from the inside.
And his cousin you know, who loved to scare him, who told him these old stories is the old Armenian! What are the chances? Anatoly Borisovich is in there, all on his own in the Vim and hes never come to visit him, not once!
She took a gulp from the bottle and passed it to Vlad.
That surprises you? It doesnt surprise me. Hes better off without him.
Well, from what youve said, you might be right. But still Vlad took a sip and grimaced. Okh, next time, can we get some Coke with this?
You and your Coke! She leant in and licked his spirit-burnt lips. You know its full of sugar, as well as chemicals?
He chuckled as he pushed his hand down the back of her trousers.
Do you think do you think you can cure him, Vlad?
The hand squeezed her buttocks. I dont think cure is the right word, princess. Hes remembered a lot, but hes old, frail and theres a blank where his recent past should be. I will make a diagnosis, recommendations, you never know but I doubt he will go home. His other hand squeezed into her trousers. Dr Spatchkin has concerns about his heart, too.
There was nothing in his notes about his heart!
The hands stilled and he pulled back to look at her.
How do you know what was in his notes?
She met his gaze, raised her chin, and decided to tell the truth. I read his file.
He almost jumped off the bench. What do you mean, you read his file?
Dont look like that! It was when I came to see you, the other week. You fell asleep. I was bored. And, well, Im studying gerontology too, you know. I read a lot of the files. You were catching flies, at the time. She mimed a snore and shrugged, passing him the bottle.
Shed had to work quite hard to make him forget about it. That was unusual. He had been like a dog chewing a babas leg, not her usual billy-goat, easily led by his horns. Shed eventually got to her bed with numb fingers and toes. But it had been worth it.
And now she was admiring her reflection in the dusty windows of the pharmacy, where normally shed have clocked on that morning. The blue-faced boredom of the early shift had spoilt her days all through the summer, had ground her down almost to nothing. How shed enjoyed skiving today. She resisted the urge to spit in the doorway and instead focused on the positive; her intelligence, her beauty and her resourcefulness. She rearranged her hat, the rich red of the knit complementing the black-earth glow of her hair. She had told them she was sick, but now she didnt care if they saw her.
She smiled serenely as she walked on. It was funny how you could put up with almost anything, any kind of daily drudgery, desertion, or despair, once you saw a clear way out, gathered your courage, and took those decisive steps.
She stopped at a bank of grey public pay-phones glistening like giant slugs in the autumn sun. There would be more privacy here than at her student hostel. She chose a phone for inter-city calls and heaved out her purse, fat with brown plastic phone tokens. It was followed by her notebook, where she had hurriedly scribbled down the number and address of the flat the same night shed read his file. The same night shed taken his key. She grinned again at her own cleverness and punched in the digits. The pips pipped, and she pushed in the play-money.
Is that Babkin? Yes, its Polina. I yes, dont worry about it the carpet tiles come up, Ill replace it. Its fine. Babkins voice slurred through his leathery gums. She really didnt want the detail. She decided to talk over him. Listen, I have good news: the problem at this end is totally resolved, and I can extend the lease indefinitely She paused until the grateful babble at the other end subsided. But Im sure youll understand, as the circumstances have changed for the better, I now need three months rent, in advance cash, dollars.
Babkin didnt like it. He squeaked fiercely. She was unmoved. Ill explain again. When it was a short let, you could have it week on week, but now, well, it will be a long let, and I must ask the market rate. I cant thieve from myself, can I? And the market rate in Rostov is a three-month deposit.
She waited for silence, and let a pause inch by.
Then you leave me no choice. If you wont pay, you must go. Two weeks; its in the contract Babkin turned ruder, but she knew he would go. He didnt have residency papers, he wouldnt dare go to the police. He didnt have a leg to stand on, really. She reminded him of the fact, and replaced the receiver. Twin plumes of steam fired from her nostrils.
Babkin could go. If the old man was now long-term at the Vim, she could accommodate a more solid tenant, someone semi-permanent, who could pay upfront. Someone with teeth and a job. A working family, maybe. Her cheeks swelled in a grin. Perhaps she could advise the good doctor Vlad on the old mans treatment? Use a little psychology And perhaps she would ensure that he never made it back to his flat in Rostov, at all.
She puffed on a Pall Mall as she walked. She would have a proper clear-out once Babkin was gone: shed only had time to shove a few boxes into cupboards so far. The tenant was camping amid collections of paintings and paper, mountains of books, a mangy sheepskin, an ugly mannequin, and who knew what else. The place had been a state: thats why hed had a good rate. She caught sight of herself in a shop window, and caught her breath: that smile was beautiful, audacious even. The smile of a winner.
On she walked, heading for the bus stop but somehow unable to resist the call of the White Flamingo department store and its folk-craft collectibles. For most of her youth its shelves had lain half-empty and uninviting. How shed detested it. But things were changing: enterprise had the upper hand, in retail as in all areas of life. The tubes in the neon sign had been replaced, and now the White Flamingo had found itself. Oases of interest now sparkled within its walls in place of endless dusty textbooks and single sets of Czech make-up that you could look at but not buy. Even the sexless mannequins that had stood guard over the fall of the Soviet Union had been re-born, now crookedly resplendent in garish Lithuanian polo shirts, Capri shorts fresh from Turkey, and lacy Chinese knickers.
On she walked, heading for the bus stop but somehow unable to resist the call of the White Flamingo department store and its folk-craft collectibles. For most of her youth its shelves had lain half-empty and uninviting. How shed detested it. But things were changing: enterprise had the upper hand, in retail as in all areas of life. The tubes in the neon sign had been replaced, and now the White Flamingo had found itself. Oases of interest now sparkled within its walls in place of endless dusty textbooks and single sets of Czech make-up that you could look at but not buy. Even the sexless mannequins that had stood guard over the fall of the Soviet Union had been re-born, now crookedly resplendent in garish Lithuanian polo shirts, Capri shorts fresh from Turkey, and lacy Chinese knickers.
One section alone fascinated Polly, and it didnt feature a single imported item. She pushed open the dented metal door and hurried past Counter No. 1, Stationery and School Products, which had always been a desert to her, and made for her treasure trove, her Shangri-la: Counter No. 2, Gifts and Souvenirs.
In a glass cabinet with a scratched top that none were permitted to lean on, there sparkled a myriad of rainbow colours, shiny shapes and glistening figures. Crystal, porcelain, bark-work and lacquer: intricate, beautiful, tiny and valuable. Polly leant her hands on the impenetrable glass and stared down, mute black eyes digging into every curve and notch of each folk-work collectable. Her favourite was the Palekh work: dark lacquered trinket boxes, each with a scene from Russian folklore depicted on the lid in tiny, glowing brush strokes. Each with a value of over 150 dollars. Each a solid investment, the real black gold. She counted out the boxes, recognising the fairy-tale scenes depicted on each one: the firebird and the grey wolf; Ruslan and Ludmila; a troika of long-limbed horses with flowing manes like cresting waves; the plunging magic pike; Father Frost in his fur coat and boots, and her favourite the brave and fearless Frog Princess. She gazed at the tiny pictures on each side of the box, losing herself in them, like a child. Here was Princess Vasilisa the Wise, holding her discarded frog skin; Vasilisa performing magic; her husband the Prince seeking her salvation from Baba Yaga, and the final defeat of her evil master, Kashei the Immortal. Polly stood, impervious to the jostles of the shoppers around her, her senses filled with the heaving black forest, the smell of the swamp, the hut on chicken legs, and the power of magic.
She felt comforted: at one with Mother Russia, if not with her own progenitor. Wasnt she following in the footsteps of her distant forebears? Who needed family when you had ancestors?