The Funeral Party (18 page)

She wasn’t the least bit tired. Getting up, she walked into the living-room. Two strips of light poured from under Maika’s door. She knocked and went in.

Maika, wearing a long nightshirt despite the heat, propped herself up on one elbow and pushed away her book. “What’s the matter?”

“It seems Alik was a good artist after all. Those sharks just called and want to buy all his paintings.”

“You mean it?” Maika smiled.

“Yes. I’ll dig out an inheritance for you yet, my girl.”

“You’re joking, what inheritance? And what about Nina?”

“Nina’s no concern of mine. And we’re going to have to work like hell for that money.” Irina’s face was very tired, and it seemed to Maika that she was ageing, and at night, without makeup, her mum didn’t look beautiful at all, just ordinary.

“You know what, let’s go to Russia,” Maika moved aside, making a place for her on the mattress.

For years Maika hadn’t been able to sleep alone, and Irina would hurry from the other side of town so that her unhappy, silent child could bury her head on her shoulder and fall asleep.

Now Irina lay down beside her and arranged her bones more comfortably on the bed. “I thought about that, too. Yes, we’ll go, definitely, only let’s wait for them to get sorted a bit first.”

“Get what sorted?”

“You know, wait for things to settle down a bit, whatever.”

“But Alik said if things ever settled down it wouldn’t be the same country any more.”

“Don’t worry, things will never really settle down there …”

Irina stroked her daughter’s red hair, and for once Maika didn’t twitch or grunt.

Well then, Irina thought, it looks like that’s the end of that.

New York, Moscow, Mont Noir. 1992–7