he had left Russia for the first and last time.
He had sat at the back of a commercial jet in economy, beside his aunt, Katia. As he had looked out the window, as he had glimpsed for the first time the land that awaited him, and Katia had spoken about the farm in the Blue Mountains that would soon be his home, Demyan had scarcely known how to hope.
Demyan’s upbringing had been brutal and harsh. He had not known who his father was and Demyan’s single mother had found herself trapped in a downward spiral of poverty and alcohol. The small support she had received from the government had gone towards feeding Annika’s habit.
When Demyan had been five and his mother had lost her spot at the market, it had been Demyan who had taken on the responsibility of providing for them. Demyan had worked hard, and not just at school. At evenings and weekends he’d teamed up with a street boy, Mikael, and cleaned car windows at traffic lights uninvited, as well as begging tourists for spare change.
When necessary he would rummage through the garbage at the back of restaurants and hotels. Somehow, most nights, there had been a meal of sorts for himself and Annika. Not that his mother had bothered with eating near the end of her life—instead it had been vodka and more vodka as she’d grown increasingly paranoid and superstitious and demanded that her son conform to the rituals that she’d felt kept her world safe.
On her death, Demyan had fully expected to join Mikael on the streets but instead his mother’s sister Katia had come from Australia, where she’d lived, to Russia for her sister’s burial.
‘Annika always told me that you were both doing well.’ Katia was appalled when she found out how her sister and nephew had been living. ‘In her letters and phone calls...’ Katia’s voice trailed off as she looked at the sparse living conditions when she entered their flat, and then she looked properly at her desperately thin nephew. His black hair and grey eyes were such a contrast to his waxy pale skin and though Demyan refused to cry, confusion, suspicion and grief were etched on his face—never more so than at Annika’s burial.
Despite Demyan’s best efforts to ease his mother’s mind by obliging and going along with her many superstitions and rituals it had not been considered a good death. At the burial the two mourners stood silent beside Annika’s grave. The bleak service took place well away from the church and Demyan could almost hear his mother’s protesting screams as the coffin was lowered into unconsecrated ground.
Her final resting place would have been Annika’s worst nightmare.
‘Why didn’t she tell me just how bad things were?’ Katia asked as they walked away from the graveside.
‘Slishkom gorda,’ was Demyan’s flat response as he turned and looked at his mother’s grave. Yes, Annika Zukov had been too proud to ask for help from anyone and yet, Demyan thought bitterly, she had been too weak to change for herself or her son.
‘Things will get better now,’ Katia said, putting her arms around her nephew’s shoulders, but Demyan shrugged her off.
They flew from a harsh St Petersburg winter into an Australian summer. Dark, sullen and quietly grieving, for most of the trip Demyan sat beside Katia, staring unseeing out of the small oval window, yet he was hauled from his dark thoughts by the majestic beauty of the land beneath. He had heard that Sydney had one of the most naturally beautiful harbours in the world.
Now he believed it.
For the first time in a very long time, what he had been told had proved right.
It was like seeing the sun for the first time. It hurt and blinded yet he could not help but look again. Demyan’s heart was still ice, as cold and dark as the ground his mother now lay in, but in that moment, as he approached what was to be his new home, as he saw for the first time the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge, he swore never to return to Russia. He would take nothing for granted and he silently vowed that he would embrace each and every opportunity that this fresh start afforded him.
Demyan had embraced every opportunity.
Each and every one.
He had soon learnt to speak English, albeit it with a strong Russian accent. His understanding, though, was excellent, as were his grades. They remained so when he entered university. Study always came first but when he closed his books, when his work for the day was done, then Demyan indulged.
Few could resist his dark brooding looks and the occasional reward of that sullen face breaking into a smile. Sex was always on Demyan’s terms, though; he didn’t want to linger with kisses but what he lacked in affection he made up in skill, though he got bored easily and soon moved on.
Nadia was a brief fling.
A fellow Russian in Australia, it was nice to speak and hear his own language. His brain grew tired after half an hour of conversation in English.
It was just one night, except there were consequences and at nineteen Demyan found out he was about to become a father. He gave up studying and got a job. He was soon in demand, many companies wanting his sharp mind on their books, but even back then Demyan refused to commit to one company—he hadn’t been able to control his mother’s world but he was in complete control of his own.
His riches didn’t come soon enough for Nadia and by the age of twenty-one Demyan was divorced, yet he didn’t consider his brief marriage a failure for Roman, his son, was his finest achievement.
Had been.
As the wheels of his jet hit the tarmac Demyan closed his eyes and tried to block out Nadia’s appalling revelation, yet he forced them open. He was here in Sydney to face things.
It was going to be a difficult visit. The press had found out that Nadia was marrying Vladimir and taking fourteen-year-old Roman to Russia to live.
The Zukovs were the equivalent of Australian royalty and the press did not want to lose this glamorous, fractured family and were goading Demyan with cruel questions that he steadfastly refused to answer.
Demyan was sped through customs and airport security did their best to shield him from the waiting press.
Perhaps they would have been better shielding the press from Demyan, for though he walked with seeming nonchalance and his head held high, behind dark glasses his eyes were scowling. If one more camera got in too close they would have an amazing shot for the late editions because with the mood Demyan was in he could have taken them all down with his hands tied. Demyan didn’t even offer a sharp ‘No comment’ to the questions about Nadia and Roman.
He had no desire to speak to the press when he couldn’t even discuss it with his own son.
How, Demyan tried to fathom, could he possibly tell Roman that he might not be his?
Even thinking it had pain shoot, like neuralgia, through his brain.
‘Dobryy den, Demyan.’ Boris, his Sydney driver, wished him good afternoon, and as they left the pack behind and headed towards home, Demyan called Roman and again got no answer.
Finally, reluctantly, he called Nadia.
‘I want to speak with Roman.’
‘Roman’s away with friends for a few days,’ Nadia said. ‘He wants to spend time with them before we leave for Russia.’
‘No more
