Two Cousins of Azov. Andrea Bennett

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       The Palace of Youth

      ‘My dear Gor!’

      ‘Good afternoon, Sveta.’

      ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ She didn’t sound sorry. Her voice was warm and husky, like fresh rye bread.

      ‘That is quite all right.’ Gor frowned at the receiver.

      ‘But I wanted to know how you were.’

      ‘How I am? I am quite well.’

      ‘No ill effects at all? From the moth, the other night, I mean?’

      Gor considered for a moment, and ran his tongue around his very clean teeth.

      ‘None,’ he said firmly. ‘All residue was swept away when I returned home. I have had no problems with my stomach, or anything else. All is well.’

      ‘That is good. I have to say, Albina insists it was nothing to do with her.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘And I believe her.’

      ‘Of course. We must all believe her. She is a child.’

      ‘Yes. So … I was curious. Well, not curious. I was worried … has anything else happened to you, since Tuesday?’

      ‘Since Tuesday?’

      ‘Since, since the moth incident.’

      ‘Of course, the usual has continued.’

      ‘The usual?’

      ‘The phone ringing out in the night. Generally around midnight, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.’

      ‘Do you answer it?’ Her voice was quick.

      ‘Occasionally. I don’t know why.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘Nothing. No one.’

      ‘How odd. Anything else? Any other foodstuffs disappeared?’

      ‘Thankfully, no.’ He paused. ‘But I got a letter.’

      ‘A letter?’

      ‘A letter.’

      ‘Who from? What did it say?’

      ‘I did not read it.’ Gor did not want to discuss the letter, shoved into his mailbox down in the foyer. How had it been delivered? Not by the postal service, that was clear enough. Someone had got in through the locked front door, delivered their message, and left. The dusty pot plants and the shiny brown floor tiles could tell him nothing. Baba Burnikova, nodding behind the desk, could also tell him nothing, apart from that a hand-delivered letter could not have come without her knowing. The empty courtyard, glistening with last night’s rain and a thousand snail trails, could tell him nothing. He had opened the letter there in the foyer, leaning against the solid mass of the radiator, warming the backs of his thighs as he read. His name and flat number had been written in a childish hand, no doubt to disguise the writer. Inside it contained six words in an ugly scrawl.

      ‘You didn’t read it? But it could have given us clues, Gor! It might have been a spirit letter!’

      ‘Too late, I’m afraid. It has gone down the chute.’

      ‘Oh dear!’

      ‘This is no criminal investigation, Sveta. It’s just some no-good hooliganism.’

      ‘Well, you were upset, no doubt. My news is good though – I have telephoned my contact.’

      ‘What contact?’

      ‘The psychic lady. Remember, I told you about her on Tuesday?’

      Gor closed his eyes and swallowed before he spoke.

      ‘And?’

      ‘She can do it a week today.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Is that too long? I’m afraid she is all booked up until then. Something to do with Greco-Roman wrestling at the Elderly Club. I couldn’t really tell: she can be a little vague on the telephone.’

      ‘No, no, that is very good. Next Friday it is. I do hope you haven’t gone to a lot of trouble on my account, Sveta, I’m really not—’

      ‘No trouble! I want to help. And Madame Zoya can certainly help us divine what, exactly, is going on here. She has a marvellous gift.’

      ‘Quite.’

      There was a pause.

      ‘You sound low. Like you need cheering up.’

      ‘I am quite cheery.’

      He grimaced into the mirror by the telephone table, baring his teeth in an attempt at a smile. It looked more like a snarl. He could almost scare himself with those eyes and teeth.

      ‘Come to the theatre with us!’ Sveta’s voice bounced off his eardrum. For a moment he was speechless.

      ‘Wh … what?’

      ‘I just … well … you seem sad, Gor, and lonely, and well, Albina is in a dance show, with lots of girls and boys from school, and she asked specifically if you could come, and I thought, well, why not? It will be fun! And there’s a craft show going on in the foyer at the same time. And pensioners get in for free.’ Her voice crumbled to quiet as she reached the end of the sentence. A long pause followed.

      ‘Hello?’ whispered Sveta.

      ‘That is kind of you, Sveta, to think of me.’

      ‘It’s the least I can do, after giving you such a scare with that nasty sandwich. You’ll come?’

      ‘Very well: I shall be pleased to СКАЧАТЬ