You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

‘No. I was very, very careful. I told no one. Not Mama, not even you.’

She sighs sadly. ‘Do you know smokva originally meant dried figs, but because they were too expensive for the ordinary person, somebody had the idea to boil up locally available apples, quinces, plums and rowanberries in honey or sugar syrup? Smokva was the poor man’s substitute for figs. You don’t need to make do with a substitute, Tasha. You can have the real thing.’

I stare into her eyes and whisper, ‘That was the real thing, Baba. That was the real thing. What I will have after him will be the substitute.’

Her eyes widen and she gasps. ‘Who is this man?’

‘You wouldn’t know him.’

Her eyes narrow. This is when she looks closest to Papa. ‘But my son does?’

I nod.

She draws her breath sharply. ‘This man, will he tell, boast to anyone about you?’

I shake my head. ‘He’s not a kid. He understands it could cost his life.’

‘And he will not try to make trouble?’

I shake my head again.

‘Will you see him again?’

‘No,’ I say and it is a wretched sound. I can see that it startles my Baba. ‘It was just the once,’ I say miserably, ‘so I’d know what dried figs taste like.’

‘Oh, Solnyshko, you don’t know what you have done.’

‘I have done nothing. It was just this once. I did it for me. My whole life has been one long Lent and just this once I indulged.’

‘You think you have had one taste of carnal pleasure and now you can walk away and never look back? You have only awakened the demon of desire.’

We are both staring at each other when the door to the kitchen suddenly opens. Both of us jump and swivel our heads towards it. Papa is standing at the doorway. He is still dressed in the clothes he went out in last night. My father is a balding, short, barrel-shaped man. If you saw him in the street you wouldn’t even notice him, but if ever you chanced to look into his black eyes you would shudder with something unnameable. Like looking into the eyes of an insect. Not evil. Just soulless. This man could kill a man with the same emotion with which he sneezes or takes a piss.

His cold, pitiless eyes narrow at the sight of us: my grandmother in her dressing gown and me all dressed as if to go out or … no, the thought will not even occur to him that I could engage in a dirty stop out night. Surreptitiously, slowly, I push the black bag with the rope ladder deeper under the table.

‘Good morning, Papa.’

‘Why are you dressed at this time of the morning?’ he asks, a frown marring his forehead.

‘The child has her first wedding dress fitting this morning and she is so excited about it she woke before the birds were up.’

My father’s face relaxes. He turns to me. ‘Who are you going with?’

‘Lina.’

‘Good.’ He comes into the kitchen. I stand and, walking over to him, dutifully peck him on his cheek. He smells of alcohol and perfume, a strong cloying scent. It makes me step away from him quickly, afraid that he will smell Noah on me, but he absently rubs his cheek where I have kissed him, and turns to look at his mother. When I was younger, I thought he didn’t want me to kiss him, and he was actually rubbing away the kiss, but when I stopped kissing him the next time I saw him, he looked at me with his cold eyes and asked me why I did not kiss him. ‘Never forget to kiss your Papa,’ he told me sternly.

‘Vasily is coming from Moscow this afternoon,’ Papa tells my grandma, ‘and he is bringing Ptichie Moloko from The Prague restaurant for you.’

Ptichie Moloko or Birds’ Milk Cake is made from French marshmallows and chocolate and set on a cake base. It is the king of all Russian desserts and Baba’s favorite.

Grandma keeps her eyes on me while she smiles, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘Oh good. No one makes it like they do at The Prague restaurant. All the rest are plastic imitations.’

A dull heat spreads up my throat and into my face. My father looks at me. ‘You’re blushing. Why?’

I swallow hard.

‘Leave the child alone, Nikita. She is excited about her appointment,’ Baba says reaching for her cup of tea. She sips the cold liquid calmly.

Papa just grunts.

It never fails to amaze me the tone my grandmother uses on her son. This is the man who makes grown men shiver. He has never raised a hand to me. He has never needed to. The only time I saw something cruel and frightening in his face was when I came home from school and called him Daddy. Like all the other children in my school did. His head swung around so fast it was like the strike of a snake.