There was a silence. It was broken by a sudden metallic laugh that didn't quite sound human, a single syllable of mirthless release that carried all the disgust and censure that Ivan Fyodorovich had been keeping mostly to himself for a long time now.
"Coarsen him?" he said. "The boy could be no coarser! With his beer, his blue jeans, his ignorant erections that he follows sniffing like a barnyard dog. He has no dignity. No responsibility."
"But Ivan—" protested Markov.
"He is an animal!" Cherkassky pressed. "Nothing but tubes and appetite. Now he follows the tube between his legs. Older, he'll be a slave to the tube of his gullet. Like you, Gennady. Given time, he'll end up fat and sloppy. Congratoolations, Gennady! You wanted a son, you found one."
Markov burrowed deep into his chair. He looked like he might start to cry. "Ivan," he said, "I do not see why you attack—"
"Attack?" said Cherkassky. He hadn't budged from his unrumpled place at the corner of the sofa. Except for that one swift cackle, he'd barely raised his voice and his expression hadn't changed. "I do not attack. I am making clear. Your nephew is worthless."
"But the stores," said Markov. "The work he—"
The scoop-faced man ignored him. "And you," he went on. "I cannot call you worthless because for one thing you are very good. Very good to hide behind. Wide. Fat. A fat soft pillow. At home in your big impressing house where the mayor comes for bribes. In this way you are valuable. But only in this way. Remember that, Gennady. And now you will call your nephew and you will tell him he must do this thing today. You understand?"
Markov stared out the window. The sky was flawless blue. Water twinkled, flowers sprouted everywhere, but he saw only desolation. Control. He'd never had it in the old country, and he didn't have it here. Strong at science, weak at life, he'd always surrendered to being used and fed. His eyes watered with self-pity, smearing the view. Breeze was lifting palm fronds and pressing them back, they looked like panicked arms raised up to protect a face. "I understand," he said.
"But I have dinner plans tonight," said Suki, cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear. She was sitting at her desk at the Island Frigate, confronting invoices and receipts and paper clips, catching up on the boring things she'd been neglecting and that paid her rent.
"I really want to see you," Lazslo said.
"That's nice," said Suki. "But it doesn't change my plans."
He paused, sought to convey great effort, a baring of the soul. "I really liked talking with you last night."
"Really? I didn't think you did. In fact getting you started was like pulling teeth."
"Talking about Russia," Lazslo said, "it isn't easy for me. But... But I woke up this morning and felt relieved, cleaned out."
Suki slapped the stapler, said, "I'm glad the therapy is going well."
"There's much more I want to tell you."
"How about tomorrow?"
"How about a drink this evening?"
Suki rolled her eyes and sighed. "Lazslo," she said, "you're always trying to hurry things. Haven't you gotten it by now? That doesn't work with me."
"A drink," he said. "A chat. An hour of your time. I'll pick you up at six."
Suki bit a pencil, looked at the old school clock on the wall. "Six-thirty. And I absolutely have to be free by eight."
"Free by eight," repeated Lazslo. "I promise."
Chapter 12
Suki locked the door of her apartment, dropped the key into the small bag she carried on her shoulder, and stepped down from her porch. Six-thirty; the early part of dusk.
The light was soft and shimmering, it seemed to fall in grains of different brightnesses, and the first thing Lazslo noticed as she moved toward his car was that she was trying much harder to look good for whomever she was having dinner with than she had for him last night. Her eyelids were discreetly lined and shadowed faintly blue. She wore pale lipstick whose main effect was to trace out the tantalizing crinkles of her upper lip. Her dress had a funny pattern of apples and pears, and its cloth was of a kind you could almost imagine you were seeing through. When she closed the Caddy's door behind her, the faint draft carried her scent of citrus and vanilla.
She said a blithe hello that Lazslo found it beyond his strength to answer. Resentment of her dress, its thinness and its ungrudging neckline, clamped his throat. The weight of his mission locked his jaw. Silently he put the car in gear and started driving.
Suki said, "Jeez. For a guy that wanted to talk..."
Lazslo turned his head to look at her. His neck didn't seem to pivot easily and ropy veins were standing out below the skin. "It's hard for me," he said. "I told you that."