He began with the easy: remembering where he lived. It wasnt out here by the sea though. It was in the town: in Rostov! Of course, how had he forgotten that? Rostov was his home town now! His fingers curled around the blue crayon. He gradually recalled his apartment, his home for many years, and the lovely things hed filled it with. A jumble of furniture and long-forgotten artefacts dropped into his mind like rain into a bucket, getting steadily stronger, the surface of the water dancing. He could see them: the sheepskin on the wall, the mannequin in its shamans cap, the books across the shelf, his easel, the maps and papers sprawling on his desk, and best of all, his shoe box, home of special treasures, hidden beneath his chair. He remembered the view of the trees in the courtyard: a proper copse, right by his window. He remembered its stillness. Cats and crows, chessmen and playing cards; he remembered them all, piece by piece, putting together the puzzle. His hand moved on: more patterns, bigger, bolder. He could smell the wallpaper now, and feel the fuzz of the carpet under his toes. He sensed the creaking of the shoe rack in the hall, and the lazy buzz of flies in the kitchen. He caressed the cracked plastic receiver of the phone that never rang, and heard the hum of the lift out in the hall.
It was all there. The tick of the heating system, the crackle of the radio. The tin of lemon sweets on the side by his hiking sticks. But something was wrong. He tried to think and etched big circles, circles over circles, ripples in a pond. He recalled the maps had become prisons, the chessmen his enemies. Theyd laughed at him, tortured him: the wiggled lines and hard faces had eaten into his mind. There was medicine: it came to him, the sour taste of the syrup, the bottle smashed on the floor. Hed had a fever! That was it! Hed lain in his apartment, glued to the sofa, unable to walk, sweating and shaking. Hed stared at the calendar, the harsh, stand-offish numerals, and hed known something. He had the expectation, hed waited and waited. Someone was coming. But
Eventually, a neighbour had thought it odd: he had not called for promised vegetables, had failed to collect his post. There were raps at the door, tap-tap-tapping, but he couldnt answer. All he could do was rave. He was afraid. Alone and forgotten, feeling abandoned, hed waited for death as the sun rose and set, and the trees tapped on the window.
Instead of death, an official had come, with dirty shoes and a big black briefcase, the caretaker in tow. Theyd let themselves in and covered their noses as they spoke. The doctor had been called, the union, and more.
The leaves had still been on the trees, there had been warmth in the air, the sound of bees
So hed let them take him, like a child: a brown-paper label tied around his wrist, they had packed him off, no goodbyes or hellos, to a place with mud and wind and salt marshes, and a lone pine tree. Hed lost himself along the way, like a leaf blown on the wind. The crayon rubbed the paper. He could smell the wax.
Shortly before supper, he dropped the crayon stub, exhausted. There it lay before him, the map of his recent past. He could follow it, tracing with his finger, right up until Vlad.
Vlad, who had let him speak, who had nodded, smiled, questioned, and most of all, listened.
When would Vlad come back? He had a tickling in his bones, a clawing in his brain, something trying to get out. The story wasnt quite finished; it wasnt quite right. If only he could work it out!
The door scraped.
Do you need the toilet?
Anatoly Borisovich did not turn his head.
My Name Is Sveta
Sveta regarded herself in the full-length mirror of the bathroom as the horizon swallowed the sun. Electric light was supposed to be flattering, but the black polyester dress stuck to her every dimple and bulge. A slip would be unavoidable.
Mama! Come out of the bathroom! Youve been in there for ages! Albina shouted, hammering at the door with her fists. Sveta smiled: the door had been closed for no more than twenty seconds. The child was a live-wire. Such spirit!
Yes, baby-kins, Im coming. Svetas sweetness at home, around Albina, was a secret she treasured closely. By day, in her persona of Svetlana Mikhailovna Drozhdovskaya, part-time teacher of English, she was strict, often demanding, blessed with an eagles glare and a sigh of admonition that could knock a goat off its feet. She took her teaching seriously. After all, Years 26 presented a critical stage in pupil development: they could still be encouraged, their horizons expanded. Occasionally she scared the more timid ones with her passion: she could see their bottom lips trembling, their brains churning to butter as she demanded more of them than they were used to. But they would thank her when they were older if just a grain of that passion was left imprinted on their souls. Sveta knew she did a good job. She received the largest bouquets on leavers day, as well as the best fruit each new term. And, of course, a large dollop of the childrens respect, which was at least as important.
She leant towards the mirror and applied a rich clot of lipstick. She considered its effect, head on one side, and decided it would do very well. In her bones, she knew her talents were wasted. It was all very well making future plumbers and book-keepers recite Shakespeare with something approximating a British accent, but it lacked challenge. There was a hole in her life. Not a man-shaped hole, but a hole, nonetheless. Maybe that was why she loved mystics and psychics, and maybe that was what had made her answer Gors advert. The excitement of something else. She gazed into the mirror and imagined the fit of the bodice, the feathers at her shoulder, the glint of the tiara. The magicians assistant, or the acrobats assistant: this was the life she had not lived, yet.
She had not lied when she told Gor shed made her acrobat go. She had no regrets. But she needed a teaspoon of the extraordinary: a chance to be brave and to feel mystery, whether it lay in the bottom of a teacup, flitted around a candle, or was secured in a magical cabinet.
She dotted powder on her nose as Albina rained blows on the door. Tuesdays rehearsal had been very strange. Firstly, Gor had telephoned her in the middle of the afternoon to remind her of their appointment, something that was clearly unnecessary. Secondly, he had insisted on staying on the line for a further ten minutes to lecture her on the drought in Central Asia, while she was in the middle of trying to set her hair. And thirdly, when shed actually arrived, hed been by turn aloof and excitable, rushing from one trick to the next, from room to room, darting between the lights and the props, hands shaking. There had even been a flush of colour in his cheeks, at times. Strangest of all though, hed attempted to smile a number of times. She didnt yet know Gor like a brother, but she knew him well enough smiling was a bad sign. She had been tempted to telephone him in the intervening days, just to check that he was alive. But he was unlikely to answer the telephone, or even the door. She dearly hoped Madame Zoya would be able to give him the comfort he needed tonight.
She opened the bathroom door.
I dont know why you bother with that lipstick, Mama. You still look old, the girl smirked, pushing past to take her place before the mirror.
Albina, that isnt kind. I am forty-three, and I look forty-three, that is all.
You look old. Look at me! Im young and and Albina regarded her body, twisting and turning in the mirror. And fat! She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and puffed her cheeks. You feed me the wrong food, Mama. Youre making me fat. We should have Danish yoghurt every day! Why dont we have Danish yoghurt? Thats what the other girls have.
Sveta smiled as she walked towards the bedroom. We dont need imported food. Those yoghurts are full of chemicals. And think about the kilometres they have to come.
Youre so old fashioned! Albina followed her from the bathroom. Just because its imported, it doesnt mean its bad.
Yes, but it doesnt mean its good either, malysh. When I was little
Boring! bellowed Albina, Boring, boring! Why are you always talking about you? You dont care about me at all! You wont even buy me yoghurt! She stomped from the room, feet thudding on the parquet as she headed for her lair. You wont buy me anything! she added, slamming her door.
Sveta looked after the girl and breathed out slowly. She hadnt thought having a daughter would be like this. She could dimly remember her daydreams from before Albina was born: shed envisaged a companion, with similar tastes, who would help with the cooking, go to dance lessons, enjoy the poetry of Pushkin and the pop of Alla Pugachova. Someone who would cherish her, and read to her in the evenings. Not someone who would teach a parakeet to swear. She smiled and wriggled into her slip, patting it down this way and that. You never knew what you were going to get. That was half the fun.
She renewed her lipstick for luck, and went to the hallway for her galoshes. She could make out Kopek saying something disgusting and her daughter humming a TV jingle for processed cheese.
Ill see you later, sweet-ums! she called out. Auntie Vera from next door will be here at seven, so not long to wait. Make sure you take your bath.
Albinas head poked through her doorway at the end of the corridor. Kopek was sitting in her hair. Tell Mister Papasyan tell him I hope he feels better.
Madame Zoyas apartment sprawled on the top floor of one of Azovs oldest buildings, right in the town centre. The four flights of stairs up to it were wooden, steep and uneven. Sveta passed bricked-up doorways, crooked nooks and niches, and the banisters themselves resembled sinewed, twisting snakes. She puffed, cursing the slip that stuck to her tights, threatening to bind her legs as she moved, and her hand trembled as she pressed the perished buzzer of Flat 13. After a long wait, silent but for her panting, the door opened a crack.
What business?
The spirits!