wish you could see how good you look. If you did you wouldn’t worry. Here – this is what you look like.’ He held a book out to Mikhail. The book was an old one, the pages yellow at the edges. Mikhail supposed the pictures were works of art. Most of them were etchings of young boys in togas. Their faces were beautiful. Mikhail closed the book and put it down carefully.
Claude took some more shots before suggesting Mikhail have a break. The cooler air in the passage felt good. Claude went into the kitchen to make them some tea. Mikhail followed him.
‘What happens next?’ he asked.
Claude looked alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Is this when you fuck me?’ Mikhail had never used the word before but Tincan used it all the time.
Claude dropped a teacup onto the floor. As he bent to pick it up Mikhail noticed that the seam of his trousers had split. Claude reached out for the cup but his hand missed and he stayed there where he was, as though frozen to the spot. Mikhail could not see his face but, when his shoulders started heaving, he assumed the older man was crying.
‘Shit!’ Mikhail whispered. It was another Tincan word.
Claude moved across the floor on his knees, his glasses misted with his tears. When he reached Mikhail’s feet he bent double and kissed them. His mouth felt wet. Mikhail kicked him away and he rolled like a dog.
‘Don’t hate me!’ Claude said. He was sobbing properly now, his belly rising and falling like a child’s. He would wake his father. Mikhail put his hand out to stop him and Claude grabbed it.
‘Please don’t hate me,’ he whispered, pressing his lips against the centre of the palm.
‘I can’t afford to hate you,’ Mikhail said quietly. ‘If I don’t live here I’ll die.’ He knew that. He had no option. That was the way things were in his life. If you wanted to stay alive there were certain things you had to do: steal; sell drugs; pose for pictures; get fucked by old men. That was how it was, he understood that. Nothing was for nothing – it was a fact of his life.
Claude was groaning at his feet, soft little whelps, like an animal in pain. Mikhail undid his robe and the moans grew more intense. Mikhail blocked out what was happening and thought about the money.
Twenty-five forint. It seemed like a fortune. He would save it all for a plane ticket and then he would fly off somewhere where there was no snow. America was a good place, Andreas had told him that. You could get everything there; everything you wanted. Andreas had planned to go to America to get a record deal for his group. Maybe Mikhail could go there in his place. How much and how long would it take, though?
Claude was kissing his feet again and he kicked him harder, this time in the belly. Claude let out a cry of pleasure. ‘Again!’ he called. Mikhail watched him squirm on the floor.
Too long, was the answer that came into his head, much, much too long.
It was a whole year after Miss Clayburg had left the house at Cape Cod, and nothing much more had happened other than Evangeline growing another inch and her grandmother having her heart broken for the second time.
The old lady never said a word, but Evangeline knew she had pinned great hopes on her being artistically gifted. She still went up to the studio to try long after her tutor was gone, but one day the door was just locked and that was obviously an end to it. Evangeline would have been relieved, but her disappointment stung like salt on a scratch.
She wanted to do well so badly that it hurt. If Grandma Klippel was searching for another Darius, then she was looking, too, for some special talent to make her worthy of her parents’ love, even though she knew they were dead now. Sometimes she got angry rather than sad and wished she had a flair so that they might have realized too late what they’d missed and regret not taking her with them. She even wrote small scripts in her workbook:
DARIUS: Did you reelize Evangeline had flair as an artist too, dear?
THEA: No i never new that. she was always such a plain child that i never held out much hope for her. Perhaps we made a misstake, Darius. Perhaps she shuld be here with us now, after all.
When she had finished writing she would always tear the pages out and screw them up into small balls, just in case. She didn’t think Grandma Klippel ever came snooping but if she did Evangeline didn’t want her finding out her son and his family were all dead. Sometimes she wished Cecil was still there so she could discuss things with someone. She even asked her grandmother if she had his address, but was told he was back in Britain and wouldn’t want to be bothered by letters from little girls he hardly knew.
Then something strange happened.
Evangeline was called out of class one wet September day and sent home early. All the way back in the car she worked over what might have occurred but nothing came to mind – apart from the extreme long shot that Patrick might have found his way back.
When they got to the house Grandma Klippel was not on the porch as usual but waiting in the best lounge beside a tray of tea. Evangeline had not been in the room much before. Someone had taken the sheets off the chairs and there was a fire burning and spitting in the hearth; they had put pine logs on the fire and the smoke smelt sweet. Mrs O’Reilly must have been up earlier than usual because there was the biggest bunch of anemones ever in a porcelain bowl on the centre table.
The room itself was mainly reds and rose pinks, and would have looked jolly enough had it not been for the expression on Grandma Kippel’s face. Her nose was as crimson as the wallpaper and she looked like she had a cold. Her eyes were swollen and her hands looked fidgety. When she picked up her cup it danced noisily in its saucer.
There was a man in the room. Evangeline thought he must be the new chauffeur, even though she had no idea the old one was leaving. The man was no taller than her grandmother but he had thick hands that were making heavy work of the bone china. His dark hair was cut short and greased back and he wore a suit that looked wrong for his body. He smelt faintly of frying, as though he had stopped off at the diner on the journey down from wherever he lived.
‘Evangeline,’ her grandmother said, ‘… dear, this is Mr Castelli.’
He had a good-looking face, even though he was nervous. Evangeline stepped forward to take his hand, wondering why it was so important for her to meet the new chauffeur.
‘Mr Castelli is your father, Evangeline, your real father.’
She stopped before their hands touched. The man gave her grandmother what looked like an angry glance before turning back to stare at her. It made her itchy-uncomfortable.
‘Darius is my father.’ She knew she’d used the wrong tense but anything else would have hurt her too much to say it.
Grandma Klippel’s face looked funny, as though she wanted to sneeze and was trying not to.
‘Darius was only your father because he married your mother, Evangeline. When he adopted you he took you for his own, I know that. But Mr Castelli is your father by blood. Do you understand? He was married to your mother before she met my son.
‘I know she told you about him. Darius was always insistent about discussing things frankly. Do you remember?’
Evangeline nodded. She had always known she had two fathers but she’d thought this one didn’t
