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, its 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, its 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, thats 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 thats not fair! The boys bottom lip started to tremble.
Lifes not fair, Tolya, lifes 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 babas 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 wasnt asleep.
Tell me a story, Baba.
Get to sleep, boy its 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 Id never opened my mouth. Moth boy what nonsense! There is no story. Its just a myth; tittle-tattle. Ive never seen him Babas 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 boys not that old although, if hes a spirit then hes as old as water, as old as the stars. Maybe the shaman knows, eh? You know the local people believe, dont you? And whos to say theyre 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, thats 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 couldnt 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 cant come back. Babas voice was becoming thick with sleep.
Ive heard him, Baba! Tolya rocked his blond head into Babas shoulder to rouse her. Hes real.
Oh, my boy! Real, not real: whats 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, dont we Baba?
Go to sleep. We believe what we want to. And what we believe must be real, mustnt it? Tolya nodded. Maybe youll be a scientist when youre grown up, and you can tell me if spirits are real or not.
I will, Baba. Ill be a scientist. Then well know.
Good. But now its time to sleep. Papa will be home soon, and hell be angry if were 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. Thats what the boys said. All will be well. Just believe. Thats 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 mans head snapped up.
You see, Vlad, moth boy is as old as the wind, the water. The story I didnt 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 didnt 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, Im sorry, I have to go. It was gone four oclock. 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 hadnt 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.
Ill come again, maybe later in the week? Perhaps then we can get to the research part? What youve told me is fascinating, thank you, but I cant use it. It doesnt 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 couldnt see your way to bringing me a little morsel to eat next time, could you? We dont 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 dont eat cake. Im an athlete or at least, I was.
Oh really? Thats a story!
Not really.
The old mans eyes rested on Vlads arms as the muscles flexed under his sweater, then travelled to his legs, slim in their close-fitting jeans.
Ill 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 wasnt 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 couldnt believe he had agreed to it. But Sveta had been keen to help, and what was more, her concern had seemed genuine. He hadnt 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.