Eventually Sveta yawned and stretched. ‘Let’s have a feed. Everybody? We need to eat. I haven’t eaten all day. Albina, you must be hungry, baby-kins?’

  ‘Mmm, actually, I had quite a lot of yoghurt … and pryaniki. But if you’re making something?’

  Sveta went to the kitchen. ‘To start, I will put the kettle on, and we will have tea. Now, Gor …’

  She came back to stand in the doorway.

  ‘What a wicked girl: all those phone calls, all that mischief; and all for nothing! I still can’t believe it!’ Gor stared at the piano keys.

  ‘Greed,’ said Sveta, ‘that’s what it is. Gets hold of a person … when there’s not enough love.’

  ‘Ha! Only a woman could believe the bad turn bad due to lack of love.’

  Sveta raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

  ‘And only a man could be too blind to see it. Now – have you any cutlets about the place?’ She trotted back to the kitchen, opening first the fridge and then the freezer compartment. ‘Oh, you have! How marvellous!’ She brought out a brown paper parcel, wrapped with string.

  ‘Have I?’ He began polishing the piano keys with spit and his handkerchief, rubbing at the ivory till it shone. ‘I didn’t know. What a fine piano!’ He stood back smiling to himself, and patted the piano’s lid.

  Sveta cut the string with Gor’s sharp red-handled scissors and pulled open the paper.

  Her shriek filled the apartment, echoing off the ceiling, jumping into the cats’ ears, making them hiss and arch their backs.

  Gor dashed to the kitchen. Sveta was standing over the parcel, one hand to her throat. Inside lay the frozen remains of a headless white rabbit.

  The Big Show

  On a grim day in December, Gor looked from his little kitchen window, and smiled. Life was perking up. A rosy-cheeked glow had spread among the residents of the southern Russian town of Azov, and it wasn’t from the cold. School was out, the Year 2s still did not know the Roman alphabet, and Kopek had learnt a new song. Albina had settled down and was no longer being over-polite to her mama, which Gor reckoned was a good thing. The nights were long, the frosts hard, a promise of snow watched from the shoulders of the Urals, and New Year beckoned with glinting fir-tree fingers.

  Gor had long-since torn the X-bespeckled calendar from the wall and shoved it down the rubbish chute with a ‘rom-pom-pom’ and a flourish. He and Sveta had embarked upon a series of serious rehearsals, even hiring a room at the House of Culture. And while he had resisted Sveta’s initial costume sketches, he was not equal to the task of putting her off completely. Eventually, he had agreed to both ostrich feathers and sequins, for her at least.

  They were striving for normal, pushing the events of the autumn far behind them, like swimmers in a pool, pushing away the water, stroke by stroke. When he wasn’t visiting cousin Tolya or rehearsing magic tricks, Gor spent a lot of time thinking. He and the kittens held a series of long communions. He told them his troubles, and they listened attentively. In turn, they told him they were ready for new homes.

  And today? Today was show day: the Fund-Raising Spectacular, or FRS. It had started when Albina had asked again about the Magic Circle money. He was trying to teach her the notes on the piano, just the basics. She was like a dog with a bone; all she wanted to hear about was his crime.

  ‘But what are you going to do?’

  ‘You don’t need to concern yourself. Now, this is middle C—’

  ‘Seriously! They could kneecap you!’

  ‘No, no! They are magicians! I will sell the piano. That is the answer. This note is D—’

  ‘You can’t sell the piano! It’s your only joy!’

  Gor sucked in his cheeks and nodded. ‘Well, maybe I can sell the car. This note is E—’

  ‘Nooo! If you have no car, how will we get to the dacha? How will you eat?’

  ‘Well, if I can’t do that, I may just go to the police and admit what I’ve done.’

  ‘But they’ll put you in jail with murderers!’

  ‘Albina, I don’t really care. So next to E comes—?’

  ‘But what about cousin Tolya, if you are in jail?’

  ‘You really are tiresome, young lady!’

  ‘You said a million roubles? That’s only about …’ She screwed up her nose and counted on her fingers. ‘… Two hundred and thirty US dollars. That’s not a lot. Not worth jail.’ She fixed him with a straight look.

  ‘I have three dollars,’ she said. ‘I can put that in—’

  Gor shook his head. ‘Thank you Albina, you are most generous, but—’

  ‘I was thinking of it as an investment, not a gift.’

  ‘Either way, I cannot take your money. The piano must go—’

  ‘There has to be another way,’ said Albina, finger in her nose.

  ‘The accounts are due in January. There is no other way.’

  ‘Ooh! But wait!’ Albina leapt from the piano. ‘What about the spectacular? Eh? Eh?’ She looked from Gor to her mother.

  ‘Hmm?’ Sveta roused herself from her magazine. ‘The spectacular? But that’s just an idea, Albina. I don’t see how it could help.’

  ‘Spectacular? Spectacular what?’ Gor asked.

  ‘Oh Gor, you must remember – the idea I had for a variety show.’ Sveta’s eyes turned misty as she stared into the middle distance. ‘Something the like of which Azov has never seen: a glittering cornucopia of light entertainment.’

  ‘Mama, we will do it, and make it a fund-raising spectacular!’

  The magazine dropped to the floor. ‘Tell me more, baby-kins?’

  ‘Imagine: the spectacular of the year, a glittering event: we charge for tickets to cover our cost, and use the profit to clear Gor’s debt.’

  ‘Ooh! That sounds—’

  ‘We charge two thousand roubles per ticket, give some to children’s homes and hospitals to make it look good … It’s so easy!’ She giggled.

  ‘Well, I have to say, Albina, I think you’ve had a marvellous idea!’

  They jiggled up and down together on the sofa squealing with excitement.

  ‘Right!’ Albina clapped her hands. ‘Let’s start with the programme, then the marketing strategy, and then the budget.’

  ‘Ah-ha,’ said Sveta, ‘and the costumes. Don’t forget the costumes!’

  Gor stared at the bowl of toffees on the table, and wondered if he should try one. After all, he would not need to speak now for at least an hour and a half.

  ‘We could have acrobats. You know we have a certain circus connection?’ Sveta gurgled. ‘Well, maybe I could use him—’

  ‘Oh no, Sveta—’ Gor coughed out the toffee.

  ‘Don’t worry, it will be very tasteful! He can get his hands on all sorts, believe me! The stories he used to tell: the Cossack troupe, the strongest man on earth, Rudolfo the Clown. Oh, and they had trained piglets, can you believe that? Piglets pushing cats around in prams! That would be super-fantastic, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Kopek can sing, Mama. Kopek can be in the show, can’t he?’

  ‘Absolutely, malysh! He has to be in the show!’

  ‘I could teach him a new song—’

  ‘And if we get the piglets—’

  ‘I’m not sure about piglets,’ Gor cut in.

  ‘We just have to do it! It will be marvellous, piglets or no! We have had more than our fair share of misfortune. It’s time to make us some luck!’

  Excitement sizzled through the corridors of the Palace of Youth. Chattering school children, young couples with fingers interlaced, big-bellied local dignitaries and wizened old ladies with apple-pip eyes tussled one after the other with the stiff double doors, intent on the event of the year.

  Intriguing posters plastering every bus stop, bottle-exchange and bread shop had promised the townsfolk an extravaganza they could not resist, and the great and the good had sallied forth, proud to pay up. Even the Deputy Mayor was in attendance, a tall blonde dripping diamonds by his sweating side. He’d insisted on paying double the going rate, on principle.

  Valya and Alla surged into the foyer, sheathed in matching creations of shiny, flower-spattered viscose. Thrilled with their free tickets, they had told everyone who would listen, for two weeks in a row, what a lovely man, and fantastically talented magician, Gor Papasyan was.

  ‘We went to his séance, didn’t we?’ said Nastya to Alla from the corner of her mouth as they waited to stow their coats. ‘Did anything come of it, do you know?’

  ‘Well,’ said Valya, leaning in and shaking her head like a terrier with a rabbit, ‘let’s just say it was nothing but a con, as I always said! Smoke and mirrors, nothing more!’

  ‘But what about Polly?’ pressed Nastya in a stage-whisper, suppressing a grin. ‘There have been rumours! Didn’t she bite the head off a chicken?’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip!’ snapped Alla loudly. ‘I did my best. I gave her so much support, and what did she do? Theft! Menaces! Kidnap! But no chickens, wool brain. Where did chickens come from?’

  ‘It was all her! My Vlad was just … just putty in her hands. Her filthy hands! She used him abominably,’ said Valya. ‘He’s still suffering now! Anyway, she’s off for a little correction, and let’s hope she comes back … corrected. Or not at all.’

  ‘Huh!’ huffed Alla. ‘Her mother’s very cross. Blames me! Might impact on US immigration, apparently.’

  Valya pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t know. East, west, home is best.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘When are the piglets on?’ asked Valya, squinting at the programme.

  Cousin Tolya had been brought by taxi all the way from Rostov. Gazing about him as he took his seat in the front row, he wondered at the babble, the hum, the busyness of it all. It was a long time since he had seen so many people. He had wondered about the noise, but as he sank into the velvet of his seat, he felt a flutter of calm, a murmur of excitement; he liked it. He heard the thousands of words, saw the flashes of smiles, and felt at home. The bag of cake in his lap added to the comforting effect.

  ‘Eat! Eat and enjoy, Anatoly Borisovich!’ Valya had said as she helped him to his seat.

  Life could be magical.

  In the foyer, several former bank clerks crowded around Gor, mumbling quietly and shaking his hand in the gloom, making diffident remarks about how fit and slim he looked. He rebuffed their compliments and managed two jokes in the six minutes he gave it before pretending he had business backstage. In fact, he had no business anywhere in the building. So he checked on his cousin and made for the dressing room, for a little meditation before curtain up.

  Sveta, meanwhile, was in her element. The programme had been a joy to put together, and the costumes were all that she had hoped for, if not more. Hers had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door for a week, sending tingles up her spine each time she looked at it. Now, she gave a yelp of pleasure as she zipped up the bodice in the honeyed light of the dressing room, the gold sequins sparkling like a sky full of fireworks.

  ‘Sveta,’ she murmured to the full-length mirror, ‘you are indeed a cracker.’ She blew herself a kiss and carefully hoiked up her fishnets before slinking through the door. She would stand in the wings, feeling the buzz, watching the audience … living the show.

  First up there was dancing, supplied by the nimble fairies of Albina’s school. No one was sure who had devised the work, which was, as the audience discovered, an interpretation of ‘the meaning of milk products in modern society, and the life of a cow’. Interesting in the extreme, they had no clear clue as to whom out of the dozen or so dancers was the cow, who was the milk, and who was the butter. It received a standing ovation nonetheless.

  Next came Albina. She had worked up her own composition on Gor’s baby-grand, and proudly took to the stage, all notes memorised, with Kopek on her shoulder and a framed photo of Ponchik in place of sheet music. Notes pounced from her fingertips like kittens on teasels and the audience sat, spellbound and afraid to move, as the piano howled and mewed in turn. Sveta wiped away tears of pride when her daughter left the stage.

  Bogdan had been unable to supply a Cossack trapeze troupe, and had also failed to come through with the piglets pushing cats in prams. What Sveta had managed to bag, however, was Rollick, the King Singing Billy Goat. A hush descended across the auditorium as Rollick bleated the opening bars to ‘Moscow Nights’, followed by a snatch of the national anthem, and finally the rousing and almost recognisable chorus of ‘Kalinka’. The goat brought the house down and fans showered the stage with flowers, many of which he promptly ate.

  ‘Ah, Mama! Perhaps we could get a goat! It could live at Gor’s dacha, and I could teach it to duet with Kopek!’

  ‘Yes, malysh, that’s a fine idea. Let’s talk about it later.’ Sveta was dancing on the spot; nerves were getting the better of her.

  Finally, it was time for magic. They took to the stage: Grand Master Papasyan and Sveta, his Magical Mistress. The old man, dressed in a suit of dark green wool with a ruby bow-tie at his throat, was confident, assured, mysterious and kindly. He grinned at the front row, and waggled his ears. Sveta concentrated on sophistication meanwhile, her arms and legs slow and graceful, her smile poised. She ignored the ostrich feathers sticking to her lipstick.

  They began with card tricks, picking audience members to join them on stage, then progressed to scarves which appeared out of a hat or Sveta’s ear. Next came flags, knotted and un-knotted, and balls that appeared under the cup you least expected. Nothing was dropped; not a thing got stuck. The audience gasped as the magical cabinet was wheeled onto the stage. It glistened, caramel varnish liquid under the lights. They had practised the illusion many times, but still, as Sveta lay back in the cabinet, her thoughts returned to the first time she had met Gor, not so very long ago. She remembered how frightened she had been, how everything seemed strange. Now he took up his saw and bent over her, and she smiled. All was vibration and illusion. The lights pulsed and she heard the audience release a communal ‘aahhh!’ When she was invited to, she wiggled her toes inside their fishnet stockings. The audience gasped anew, and Sveta giggled.

  Small children lined the foot of the stage to pass up sweet-smelling waves of bouquets and boxed chocolate. Sveta curtseyed, blowing kisses to the balcony. This was what she had been looking for when she answered Gor’s advert. This was the spark that had been missing from her life. She floated back to the dressing room, arms heavy with gifts.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough!’ said Gor, his long face bent into a smile as he hurried back from the box office. ‘I have checked the figures, and, indeed, my debt is cleared! We can also make a donation to the orphanage. You are an angel! You have rescued me: you have salvaged my life! I can never repay you.’

  He took her hand, bent low and pressed it to his lips.

  ‘Ah Gor, it was a pleasure! You were wonderful tonight, I have to say. I’d love to … to do it all again!’

  She gazed into his eyes.

  ‘You … you, of course, were marvellous too: the perfect assistant! A vision of loveliness, combined with an aura of mystery and, um … well …’

  He still held her hand. She went to pull it from his grip, but his fingers held her wrist. He coughed, pulled out a spotted silk handkerchief with his free hand, mopped his brow, and returned it to his breast pocket.

  ‘Sveta, I was wondering, well …’ he straightened and his huge, dark eyes flickered around the ceiling, the steamed-up windows, the feathers at her neck ‘… whether we should consider … becoming … becoming a couple. I mean, alongside the magic. Not just a double act: I mean, as far as our social dealings go. You know. I feel, I mean, I get the impression, you are eager for a mate in life, and I, well, although I am older, I wondered—’

  ‘Oh Gor!’ Sveta’s chin wobbled. A shadow passed over her blue eyes, and he thought for a moment she was going to cry. Instead, her face broke into a tender, puzzled smile.

  ‘No, Gor. I mean, oh no!’

  He dropped her hand.

  ‘I am your friend; your very good friend. Your best friend, even!’ She giggled. ‘But that is all. I am sorry if …’

  She swallowed and dropped her eyes, shaking fingers wiping away imaginary lipstick lines from the corners of her mouth. Stillness enveloped the dressing room.

  There came a choking sound from Gor’s throat, followed by a creaking, tumbling, thundering, like flood water on dry rocks. Sveta looked up, alarmed. It was a sound she had never heard.

  It was the sound of Gor guffawing.

  He threw his head back and roared, eyes staring wide-open into the grimy ceiling and then squeezed tightly shut as he bent double, clutching his sides. The veins in his temples stood out as his shoulders jerked. Tears squeezed from his eyes and his ribs ached as his laughter rang out. It was infectious. Albina left off talking to Rollick the King Singing Billy Goat, giggles bubbling. Tolya toddled through the door, and started to chuckle, wide-eyed. Sveta herself could not resist, a chortle rising in her ample, elastic throat. Gor gasped for breath. Even Rollick stopped chewing, regarding Gor with his chilly, rectangular irises. Soon the entire dressing room fell about in a circle, laughing with Gor.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Albina asked eventually, gasping for breath as a frown-smile creased her face.

  ‘I am just so … so relieved!’ he croaked, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief and patting the goat.

  ‘Relieved?’ said Sveta, the smile stilling on her lips.

  ‘Akh, that is to say, happy! I am so happy – with everything! With life! Everything is resolved: life is simple again! We must celebrate! A weight has gone from my shoulders. Or several weights! We should go to the bar! Let’s have a toast! Come, we’ll go up to the bar.’ Gor rubbed his hands and grinned.

  ‘The bar? But Gor, I’m all in sequins!’ said Sveta, delighted at the thought.