‘I don’t intend to be rude,’ I say, going to the hob and rattling pots to cover up any trace of anger in my voice, ‘but I am not sure that Igor has something to contribute to this project.’
‘I fully understand what you’re saying. You don’t need to worry. Igor’s an extra pair of hands, that’s all. Also, he’s the one who knows how to use all the equipment.’
‘Equipment?’
‘The surveillance equipment. He’s got a real knack for it. Back in the Communist days, he did quite a bit of work in that field. Say what you like about the Soviets, in terms of surveillance, those guys were the gold standard.’
I stare at him in mystification, but before I can ask for clarification, the intercom sounds.
‘That must be him!’ Paul says.
With great reluctance, I go to the speaker.
‘Hello! Hello!’ shouts Igor’s voice.
‘Push the door,’ I tell him.
‘Hello! Hello! Can you hear? Igor calling!’
Eventually he manages to get in. I have not seen him since his plot with Paul was exposed, and it seems to me a guilty look crosses his face as I open the door; but then, he may have many other things to be guilty about. His furtive appearance is accentuated tonight by a large, clinking bag and a beige rain mac of the kind favoured by perverts in films; he enters the apartment shoulders hunched, head bowed, legs taking long, loping strides, as though stealing down an alleyway.
‘There you are!’ Paul greets him. ‘You remember Claude?’
Igor brandishes his stained teeth at me in the kind of duplicitous smile one might employ while secretly installing surveillance equipment in the home of a friend in the former Soviet Union.
‘You are very welcome,’ I say coldly.
‘Make yourself at home, Igor,’ Paul encourages. ‘There’s wine on the counter, and some really nice cheese. Hey, Remington, look who’s here! Say hello to your Uncle Igor!’
‘Hello, little Remington!’ Igor crooks his knees and spreads his arms out wide, like a degenerate bear. On the couch, Remington starts to cry. Igor, unhugged, creaks to his feet again. ‘Well!’ he says to me. I do not reply. He hovers uneasily between couch and kitchen; I sense that he wants to say something about the bank deception, but he just shifts from foot to foot, as if suppressing a bowel movement. Then he asks me where the bathroom is, and I realize with horror that he is suppressing a bowel movement.
I hurriedly point him in the right direction.
‘The flush, in this house, she is good?’ he asks urgently.
‘What?’ I say, but he doesn’t expand, instead hastening away.
‘That Igor,’ Paul says fondly, shaking his head. ‘I could tell you some stories.’
‘There is no need,’ I say, and remove myself to the safety of the cooker.
Not long after, the bathroom door opens and Igor saunters back into the room with an unconcealed air of unburdenment. ‘Very nice facility! Toilet roll soft like velvet! I feel like it should be wiping its ass with me!’ He stretches, then sets himself down on the couch. Remington edges in the opposite direction. ‘Why you bring the boy, eh?’ Igor says.
Paul explains that Clizia has gone to play volleyball.
Igor makes a tsk noise, and wags his finger. ‘You are playing a dangerous game, my friend,’ he says. ‘Sports can give these womens crazy notions, as well as unsafe muscle mass.’
‘She’s never been the sporty type,’ Paul concurs. ‘But she’s been so damn angry lately. I’m hoping this’ll help her relax.’
‘In old days of Ectovia, no sport for the women,’ Igor reflects. ‘Unless incest! Ha ha! If incest is Olympic sport, Ectovian womens win every gold medal!’
‘I told you before, Igor, I don’t like you spouting all that Soviet BS about Ectovia. There was no more incest there than anywhere else.’
‘Ach, you are right. Incest is everywhere, and it is just the political correctness gone mad that peoples must say they do not incest, when everyone is incesting all the time.’
‘Dad, what’s incest?’
‘Dinner is served,’ I say quickly, even though it is not, quite. The television is silenced and Remington reluctantly seats himself at the table; it feels odd to hope that a four-year-old boy will have a civilizing effect on the conversation.
‘Sorry, Claude, I should explain. Igor’s from Transvolga, and when the Ectovians seceded, they took most of the carpet manufacturing business with them.’
‘Ha!’ booms Igor, pounding his meaty hand on the table. ‘We do not want them or their shitty carpets! What is Ectovia, only the shithole city of Karakel, and a few crappy fields where the fey menfolk practise their gymnastics and the women walk their dogs that are like little furry gays!’
‘As you can see, it’s still something of a sore point.’
‘They are short bastards too, these Ectovians,’ Igor adds judiciously.
‘Bastards,’ Remington repeats.
‘That’s right, little one!’ Igor chuckles, reaching over to stroke the boy’s cheek.
‘This looks fantastic, Claude,’ Paul says, as I deliver the plates.
‘Escalopes de veau cordon bleu,’ I say. ‘It is the characteristic French dish.’
‘I’ll tell you what, if you ever get as far as cooking a meal for Ariadne, you’ll be home free.’
‘So,’ I say, seating myself, and ignoring Remington’s mistrustful stare from under the bun of his burger, ‘your plan.’
‘Okay. Well, without blowing my own trumpet, I think I’ve had a breakthrough. What happened was, I looked up that play you mentioned, Cyrano de Bergerac. And it turned out to have all these great ideas! What happens is, there’s this guy who likes this girl, but he’s shy, so he gets this other guy —’
‘I am familiar with the story.’
‘Right — so what I’m thinking is, we do a Cyrano of our own! Like, I give you the lines, and you say them to Ariadne!’
‘This is your breakthrough?’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It just sounds very similar to what I proposed to you already.’
‘Well, superficially, maybe, but see, with the surveillance equipment I can not only give you lines, I can also monitor her response to — what’s up, buddy?’
Now Remington needs the toilet. Apologizing, Paul goes to escort him, leaving me alone at the table with Igor, who fixes me with a silent, ghoulish smile. I try to think of something to say but the smile is too disturbing, so instead I get up from the table on the pretext of fetching something from the fridge — only for Igor to rise too and stroll around the living room, appraising my sparse possessions with a nakedly avaricious eye.
‘Nice place,’ he says, picking up a conch shell from the dresser. ‘Very nice.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, cracking open the oven.
‘Nice, expensive objects,’ he muses, moving closer. ‘They are pay you many moneys at this bank, eh?’
I pretend I haven’t heard him, and hunker down, bustling about meaninglessly with the racks.
‘I think I will go over here and cut some more cheese,’ Igor declares, and I am just wondering why he felt the need to announce this, when my arm is twisted behind my back and a blade pressed to my throat.
‘Don’t move, dog!’ Igor hisses, his rancid breath in my nostrils like an encyclopedia of stenches.
‘What are you doing?’ I hear Paul cry in horror from behind him.
‘Quick, tie his hands!’ Igor commands. And then, to me, ‘Talk, pig!’