‘Hello, you,’ she said, already turned on by the casual manner in which he lifted his right hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, revealing the taut muscles and hirsute underarms that gave her an erotic charge that she’d experienced only twice before in her life: when she’d first fallen in love with the handsome young George and when she’d danced with Anthony Hopkins after the premiere of The Silence of the Lambs and he’d pressed his teeth against her neck. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of you since I left you at the security gate. I thought maybe you’d died too.’
‘As well as my father?’ he asked, frowning. ‘This is not funny joke.’
‘It wasn’t meant as a joke. You said you’d text me when you landed, and you didn’t. I was genuinely worried. I don’t know what goes on in that part of the world, but one hears things on the radio and—’
‘I am sorry,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘Yes, you are right. I mean to contact you every hour of the minute but am so busy making plans for funeral—’
‘I thought he was being buried this morning?’
‘No. He is still on display.’
‘To whom?’
‘Population.’
‘Charming.’
‘And I am making food for neighbours who call in night and day. Door is broken from so many knockings.’
‘Can’t you just turn them away?’
‘I from Ukraine,’ said Pylyp, sounding outraged. ‘Not Moldova. This is thing Moldovan man will do. But I from Ukraine,’ he repeated defiantly.
Beverley nodded, realizing that she hadn’t understood how deeply this remark would cut the sensibilities of an Eastern European.
‘In London, neighbours often stop by after a bereavement,’ she told him, ‘but they know not to intrude if no one answers the door. Maybe they’ll leave a lasagne on the doorstep. Or, you know, a quiche or something.’
‘On doorstep? For dogs of street to eat?’
‘Well, I mean they leave it in a sealed container. A Le Creuset casserole dish, or whatever they have to hand. I feel like I’m rambling. Oh yes, you were saying about your neighbours stopping by constantly. Are you eating? It’s important that you keep your strength up. Don’t let your muscles atrophy.’
‘This morning, I eat dead chicken. And last night, dead rabbit. Tonight, I will eat dead pig.’
‘Well, you’re choosing the right period of their life cycle anyway. And how are your spirits?’
Pylyp frowned. ‘My spirits?’ he asked.
‘You know, are you crying a lot? Are you depressed?’
‘A man dies, is normal,’ he replied with a shrug.
‘Still, your father.’
‘Who beats me when I am a child and calls me the pansy for dancing.’
‘You mustn’t dwell on bad memories,’ suggested Beverley. ‘Try to remember the good. What was the nicest thing he ever did for you?’
Pylyp thought about it. ‘When I am thirteen years old,’ he said, ‘he is taking me to whorehouse.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘I am very serious. I am serious as the cancer. You know this song? I am serious as the cancer when I say the rhythm is the dancer?’
‘I think I’ve heard it. It always struck me as a little distasteful, if I’m honest.’
‘The rhythm is the dancer,’ said Pylyp, starting to sing in a tuneless voice. ‘It is the soul companion. You must be feeling it everywhere.’
‘At least you know what to do if you do start to feel upset.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Dance,’ said Beverley. ‘It’s what you love, after all. Have you danced since you returned home?’
‘I cannot dance the month my father is dead,’ replied Pylyp, shaking his head. ‘I from Ukraine. Not—’
‘Not Moldova, yes. Is that something they do over there?’
He turned his head and spat on the floor in disgust. ‘They are having none of the respect,’ he said. ‘This is why I despise them. But their sunflower seeds are better than anyone else’s. You have eaten the Moldovan sunflower seeds?’
‘I mean, I suppose it’s possible,’ said Beverley. ‘I’ve eaten bread with sunflower seeds on it, but I’ve never enquired about their provenance.’
‘I bring some back to London with me. They make you crazy.’
‘But you won’t be going to Moldova.’
‘Oh yes. Is good point.’
‘You’ll be coming straight back to London.’
‘Is plan, yes.’
‘And it’s important to stick with plans. Otherwise, things fall apart.’
‘Like the house of Lego.’
‘A house of cards, I think you mean.’
‘The Lego cards.’
Beverley sighed and glanced across the room, where a photograph stood of her and George on their wedding day, next to the enormous eight-hundred-page biography that her husband had brought home the previous day. They both looked deliriously happy and in love. George’s mind, his intellect, his wit had wrapped around her like a warm blanket back then. What had gone wrong in the meantime, she wondered? How had they lost each other?
She turned back to the screen, where Pylyp appeared to be counting his fingers to make sure they were all still present and correct.
‘And your mother?’ she asked. ‘How is she holding up?’
‘She rips out the hair and cries through the day and the night. I must not leave her alone for long or she hangs herself from the lightbulbs. But I do not want to talk about Odessa any more. There is someone I miss so badly in London.’
‘Oh yes?’ asked Beverley, brightening up.
‘Yes, I think about him constantly.’
‘Him? Don’t you mean her? I know pronouns are a subject of much mind-numbing debate these days, but I can assure you that I am, and will always remain, a she.’
‘I mean Ustym Karmaliuk, who is boy.’
Beverley tried not to give away her irritation that Pylyp’s first thought was for his tortoise rather than her. ‘He’s quite well. Look, he’s here with me now.’ She adjusted the laptop’s camera and angled it towards her lap, where the tortoise was sitting comfortably, munching on an After Eight. It paused for a moment, looking up slowly as if it was aware that it was the subject of attention.
‘Hello, Ustym Karmaliuk,’ said Pylyp, adopting the peculiar voice he always used when addressing the reptile. ‘Are you behaving like the good tortoise for Grandmother Beverley?’
‘Christ, don’t call me that.’
‘What is this he eats?’
‘It’s an After Eight.’
‘A what?’
‘An After Eight. You know, a mint chocolate.’ She noticed the look of horror on Pylyp’s face and immediately changed tack. ‘It’s mine. It must have fallen into my lap. Sorry.’ She whipped it away from Ustym Karmaliuk’s mouth and tossed it halfway across the room, where, to her delight, it landed directly in the wastepaper basket.
‘You must not feed him these things,’ insisted Pylyp.
‘I didn’t, I promise. It just fell!’