A tall, gaunt-looking man in a dreadful dark brown suit was waiting just outside as she stepped into the colorless light with the box underneath her chin, threatening to spill. She was aware of Adam double-parked and leaning across so he could see out of the passenger window. And the books were heavy.
Before she could say anything, though, and just as the main door swung shut behind her, the man spoke.
“Hello. I am here to see Gabriel Glover, please. He said to me to meet him here at one. Is he inside this house?”
She tried to nod over the box as she paused in her stride. She recognized the accent now—Russian. Of course. But it was hard to tell if the formality of his manner was a function of his speaking English or the purpose of his visit. Obviously her brother had some strange friends—either that or gambling debts.
“I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Now is not a good time. What is it about? I’ll tell him that you ca—oh, shitting hell.” The holdall had swung around again, off her shoulder, and she was in danger of losing some books from beneath her chin.
The man stepped forward, and before she had time to wonder what he was going to do, or for that matter to be afraid, he had taken the box.
“Thanks. Thanks…” He remained motionless while she sorted out all the bags. She looked up and met his eyes—sunken, turquoise, arresting. “Thank you.”
“Are you Isabella?”
The question took her completely aback. They stood on the doorstep facing each other for a second.
“Yeah—yes. I’m Gabriel’s sister.” The books clearly weren’t half so heavy for him, though he held the box oddly, she noticed, resting it on his arms, which he stretched out in front of him as if he were a forklift, hands free at the end. The guy must know her brother quite well after all. She relaxed a few fractions.
“Sorry.” She indicated the car. “We’re in a rush. You’re lucky you came today. Gabriel is moving out. This is all his stuff. Or unlucky, I suppose. There’s been a bit of an upheaval. You’re—”
“My name is Arkady Artamenkov. I am here from St. Petersburg. Your brother told me to come to this house to talk to him… to talk to both of you. This is how I know your name.”
And only now it occurred to her that it was something to do with her mother. Her curiosity sparked. The bags were murdering her fingers again.
“Hang on.” She started toward the car. Adam reached over his shoulder and opened the back door, and she placed the bags and holdall on the floor.
“Sorry,” she said to Adam, “just one sec ”
The man was now standing behind her, holding the box. She turned, took it from him, and dumped it flat on the back seat.
“Thank God for that.” She stood up straight as he took a step back. “Is it something to do with the flat?”
“No, no.” The other’s face changed, as if he realized that she was mistaking him completely. “No, I am sorry. I am a friend of your mother from Petersburg. I know your mother very well. Today I was going to speak with your brother about this, about her. He said you would both be here.”
“Oh. Oh God, sorry.” She wanted to send Adam home alone. She considered a second. No, it simply wasn’t fair. Her curiosity was burning her up now, though, and she felt her neck going red. She must get his number and organize another time. Gabriel should be there too. The guy’s English was better than she had first thought. She softened her tone. “Oh, I see… Sorry. What a balls-up.” She put her hand through her hair. “It’s just a very bad day today. My brother is—Gabriel is—moving out because he and his girlfriend, Lina, are splitting up. For a while.”
“I used to practice on your mother’s piano at her apartment on the Griboedova in St. Petersburg.”
“You are a musician?” Why hadn’t Gabriel told her anything about this?
“Yes. I play the piano. She… she said to me many things about you. We were supposed to talk together today.”
“Right, right, right. Oh, well, we have to arrange another time.” She glanced at the car. A scaffolding truck was turning into the road. It would not be able to get past. “I—we—would love to meet up. We really would. Is there a number I can call you on? I’m so sorry about this.”
“No. I—I—I do not have a phone.”
“Okay. Is there a way of getting in touch with you?”
His head fell and he seemed to be looking at his feet.
“How about… how about this Friday?” Give Gabriel some time, she thought; yes, he would want to be there. “Erm… whereabouts are you based?”
“I do not understand.” He looked up again.
“Where are you staying?”
“Oh, near Harrow Road.”
“Well, to be honest, the simplest thing to do is say… seven-thirty on Friday evening… at Kentish Town tube. I will definitely be there. Hang on a sec.” She opened the passenger door, reached pen and paper out of her bag, apologized to Adam again, and scribbled down her cell phone number on a piece of paper. The scaffolding truck pulled up behind the car. “This is my number. Call me anytime to confirm. I promise I will be there. Friday, Kentish Town at seven-thirty. What’s your e-mail?”
He told her an address.
“Write it down.” She handed him the pen.
The driver leaned out of the window of the truck. “Oy, love, how long you gonna be? We’ve got houses to rob.”
“Okay. See you… on Friday.” She met the Russian’s eyes a second time, hoping to convey her sincerity. A car was coming in behind the truck.
“Yes, okay.” He seemed to be about to say something but then stopped.
“Friday at Kentish Town. I promise. I am so sorry about this.”
“I will call you.”
“Yes, call me whenever. I’d love to talk. I’ll send you an e-mail to confirm.” She turned to open the door and climb into the car. When, three seconds later, she looked back through the window to wave, he was already walking away.
41
That Most Blissful Zero
The sickness passed toward the end of day four. He washed himself over and over in cold water on day five. Shaved. Face and head. Bin-bagged his bedclothes and as much of his filthy room as he could. Carried the bags out into the narrow hall. Left them by the hole. He ate a tin of beans, a biscuit, and some dried figs. As much as he could stomach. Then he took the last of the sleeping pills and moved into Arkady’s room. He slept for ten hours in the cleanliness of his friend’s bed.
On the sixth day, he thought he could appear almost normal again, though his knees ached and his stomach was still uneasy. He dressed in Arkady’s oldest clothes—sweater sleeves and trouser legs rolled, the same gulag prisoner but liberated this very morning, emaciated and all but drowning in borrowed civvies. He lugged out the black sacks. Hauled out his mattress, kicked it down the stairs one flight at a time. Burned everything on the fires outside.
There was never any real daylight in the winter. A light snow began to fall.
He climbed the stairs one flight at a time, amazed at the simple functioning of his lungs. He found another sweater, put some socks on his hands, squeezed into his old raincoat, and walked slowly all the way to Sennayska market. He went straight to Tsoikin, the CD seller from whom he had bought so much of his beloved library. The darkness returned. He walked back. He sat waiting. (Had he known all along that he would sell the music? It now seemed so.) Tsoikin arrived at seven and offered him a derisory sum for everything. He accepted immediately and took the cash. He apologized for the hole in the wall and the dust on all the cases. He explained that he was leaving. He asked to keep a single disk—Vivaldi’s holy music. He left Tsoikin boxing up and went straight out to call Grisha from a pay phone.