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

To seal the deal, she tells him that the Chef is preparing his favorite pork shashlik, chunks of barbequed meat marinated in pomegranate juice.

He comes in smiling, confident … happy. Not a thought for the harmless, innocent dog he butchered. Not just any creature. My baby. It’s not even like he didn’t know how much I adored that dog. I look up at him in wonder. This is my father. Incredible how he had completely brainwashed and manipulated me into accepting what he did to my mother.

It is almost as if the love he deliberately withheld from me put me under a spell where all I wanted to do was obey him and please him. Or perhaps my sub-conscious mind assimilated that scene with my mother better than I properly understood it. Fall out of line and get kicked out of the house forever. So I became the bird in a gilded cage. The world assumed I sang, but I was gray inside.

If I hadn’t had the courage to turn up at Noah’s office that night, I might still be under his spell. But I’ve had a taste of what lies outside the cage. He crossed the line when he murdered my Sergei. I will never forgive him for that.

He looks at me directly and smiles. ‘You look well, Solnyshko.’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ I reply with lowered eyes.

He asks our server to bring him two bottles of Tsimlansky Black. Baba approves. The smoky, dusty red redolent with the smell of forest floor is perfect with chargrilled meat.

The wine is uncorked and left to breathe, and our glasses are filled with anisette. My father raises his glass and makes a toast.

‘To the wealth of this family.’

I dutifully throw the drink down my throat.

He looks directly at me. ‘One day, you will understand me.’

We stare at each other and suddenly we are locked in a vortex. There is no one else but us in this spinning world. The powerful bonds of love, hate, fear, loyalty, duty, deceit keeps us joined together as we swirl inexorably. Surely it must be clear to him that I am the child who has turned against its own father? It is impossible that he has not guessed his meek daughter and loving mother are about to kiss his cheek and betray him. I can’t breathe. My lungs feel as if they are bursting.

Then he turns his eyes away from mine and reaches for a piece of black bread. I exhale the breath I was holding slowly. I look at his flushed face and, no, he has no idea. We are only chess pieces on his board. His arrogance would never allow him to believe that we could pick up our own skirts and move ourselves, or the other pieces.

The wine is poured, the food is brought in. There is not just shashlik but kulebyakas (pies made with meat, chicken, and cheese), a variety of blinis, pastries, fritters, meat jellies, paté, boneless duck with cucumber, two types of ukhas (soup). It is clear that each dish has been lovingly prepared and beautifully presented.

How I do, I do not know, but I consume the feast. As does Baba. Once my father stops to take a phone call, my eyes collide with Baba’s and my heart stops. For an instant, it looks as if she has changed her mind and cannot bring herself to go through with our plan, but then she forces herself to smile at me. It is a relief to know that seeing Papa at his most charming has not changed her mind.

The desserts arrive, chocolate mousse, another favorite of Papa’s. A sweet Hungarian wine Tokaj is opened and our glasses filled.

More anisette is poured, more toasts are made.

Baba looks at Papa. ‘Where there is love, there is no sin,’ she says. We down our drinks.

He fills our glasses again. ‘To love,’ Papa says, holding his glass out to Baba.

‘To long life,’ I say, and we empty our glasses again. The alcohol burns my throat.

Then I watch him eat the mousse. He appears to enjoy it and not notice the aftertaste of the pills I got from Dimitri. I had been worried he would detect it, but he has eaten and drunk so much his senses have been significantly dulled. By the time coffee is served my father starts slurring his words. Baba asks one of the servants to help him up to his room.

Most of the servants start preparing to go home.

I go to my room and change into jeans, a T-shirt, and a thick sweater and sneakers.

10.15pm: it is the change-over time. For now only a skeleton staff of two guards at the entrance and, of course, the prowling dogs. Then in less than an hour, all stations, back, front and sides, will be fully manned again.