Belshazzar's Daughter by Barbara Nadel

he couldn’t say, but he was glad. He was always glad when someone else, someone Gentile, finally understood.
    Every time it happened it meant that number 17564 receded that little bit further into the past.
     
    ‘What are you planning to cook for our visitor tonight?’
    Anya Gulcu looked up from her book. A tall, bearded
     
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    man had entered the drawing room and was making his way towards the chaise upon which she reclined. Despite his advanced age, he walked with great purpose, his bearing straight-backed and proud. She could not help but
    notice that by comparison the years had not been nearly so kind to her. Thin, wasted, her hair chewed, straggly and grey, Anya had long since given up the struggle with her decaying appearance. She frowned as he approached and put her book down on the small occasional table in front of her.
    ‘What would you recommend, Nicholas?’ she said stiffly.
    He sat down in a battered wing chair at the head of the chaise and crossed his hands in his lap. ‘He’s an Englishman, isn’t he?’
    ‘Yes.’ She smoothed the long skirt of her crisp lace dress with her hand. Her mouth moved nervously as she waited for him to speak again.
    ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult, then. Have you consulted Mama?’
    Her voice quavered. ‘Er, no. She is not going to attend, and in view of … circumstances, I thought it better not to bother her.’
    Nicholas sighed. His face suddenly looked tired and resigned. ‘Oh, yes. Of course. By the way, you know that letter she received today? You don’t know what—’
    ‘No! No!’ Anya swung her legs down on to the floor and perched nervously on the edge of the chaise. Her tiny hands fluttered shakily up to her face. ‘What are we going to do, Nicky?’
    He leant forward. He looked at her sternly, but not without kindness. Taking both her hands in his, he pressed them gently away from her face. It was obvious that her nervousness irritated him, but he tried to hide it. He loved her.
    ‘We are going to be calm, Anya. We are going to think clearly and carry on just like we always have. Talking of which …’ He looked down at his elaborate cherry-red and gold tunic and frowned. “I don’t think these clothes are going to be very suitable for tonight, do you?’
    ‘Why not?’
    He pursed his lips. This time he let his impatience show. Why did she have to have everything explained to her! ‘Think, Anya, think! Mr Robert, whatever he is, is a stranger. He won’t understand. We don’t want to alarm him, do we? What goes on in this house when he is not here is not his concern, is it?’ He looked away from her, towards the door and the stairs beyond. ‘There’s no reason to worry him with trivial details.’
    ‘Yes, of course, you’re right. I’m sorry, Nicky.’
    He got up from the chair and strode across to the
    large bay window. He looked out into the street, strong, yellow sunlight illuminating his features. He couldn’t bear to look at her when she was apologetic and mousy. Even when they were children this particular mood of hers had irritated him. She always did it when she was frightened, when she wanted someone else to take the responsibility, do her thinking for her.
    “I will buy some lamb, potatoes and rice,’ he said firmly.
    ‘You can roast the meat and potatoes, English people like that sort of thing.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Do you have some salad?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do that with it then.’ He paused. Her eyes were downcast, miserable. ‘You can do that, I presume, Anya?’ He
    hadn’t meant that to sound nasty, but he knew that it had.
    He chastised himself almost immediately.
    ‘Yes.’ She looked up suddenly, panicking. ‘Nicky, I honestly don’t know how I’m going to do this!’ Her lips trembled; she was on the very edge of tears.
    He closed his eyes and threw his arms outwards in a gesture of despair. ‘You just have to, Anya. It’s for Natalia, remember? Your daughter?’
    ‘But …’
    His