talkative —’ She broke off, waving over the heads of the nearby women haggling over lace. ‘Nina Bronnikova!’
A slim dark woman emerged from the jostling crowds. Nina Shostakovich kissed her on both cheeks, and turned to Elias. ‘May I introduce Miss Nina Bronnikova, a dancer with the Kirov. This is Mr Eliasberg, who leads our Radio Orchestra. Perhaps you already know each other?’
‘I don’t believe so.’ Nina Bronnikova’s black hair gleamed in the late sunlight. She stepped aside for a stall-holder, moving with a sinuous grace that reminded Elias of a fish. Eel! Dinner! Mother! Shopping! His thoughts were a jumble. There was an angel in the Haymarket! What did one say when introduced to a beautiful angel in a black shawl? But the moment for saying anything had long gone.
‘We were just discussing my husband,’ said Nina Shostakovich. ‘Mr Eliasberg tells me he is a genius.’
‘Most of Russia would agree.’ Nina Bronnikova smiled. There was a tiny scar above her mouth, running parallel to her lips.
‘Most of Russia doesn’t have to brew tea for a genius with a head cold. Nor explain to a genius why he has to eat codfish four nights in a row. Nor prevent him from attending a football match tomorrow, at which he will shout himself hoarse.’
Elias felt it was time he said something. ‘Oh, of course! Football!’ He’d intended to sound authoritative, but his voice came out more like a croak.
Nina Shostakovich and Nina Bronnikova swivelled, in beautiful unison, to look at him. ‘You’re a football fan?’
Elias cleared his throat. ‘The word “fan” might be overstating it. But I do take an interest. The game tomorrow is shaping up to be a good one.’
‘Are you a Zenith supporter like most of the men I know?’ Nina Bronnikova’s expression was unreadable as the sun blazed behind her.
‘Indeed! I never miss a home match, as long as my work schedule permits.’
‘Is that so?’ Her voice emerged, cool and direct, from the heart of the fiery glare.
‘The Moscow Locomotives don’t stand a chance.’ A new confidence flooded through him. ‘Dementiyev is the one to watch at present.’
Nina Bronnikova pulled her shawl around her shoulders. ‘How sad! It’s now a definitive truth. When it comes to the brutal sport of football, Ivan Sollertinsky is the only man in the world with his senses about him.’
Nina Shostakovich laughed. ‘And that’s despite the fact Dmitri wasted a considerable portion of his youth attempting to persuade Ivan that football is an art.’
Elias flushed. ‘I suppose I’d better get on, or there’ll be no supper tonight.’ But as he stepped back, he stumbled against the stall behind him, put out a hand to steady himself, and felt it sink into a rubbery mass of cheap caviar. ‘Oh, hell,’ he said for the second time that afternoon. ‘Well, goodbye! Please don’t feel obliged to shake hands.’ He tried to laugh. ‘You may have already heard that I’m a bit of a cold fish.’
Nevertheless, the two Ninas shook his hand politely before walking away together. Nina Shostakovich’s feet pointed straight ahead, as if plotting the most direct route home to her husband, and Nina Bronnikova’s toes turned outwards, her shining head tilted to catch what her friend was saying. Elias also strained to hear over the cries of the fishmongers. ‘Nikolai Nikolayev?’ he heard distantly. ‘Yes, a wonderful man. Tragically widowed. Devoted to his daughter.’ It sounded like a recommendation for a job — or an epitaph.
He began wiping his hands clean with some old sacking. ‘Here lies Nikolai, a man devoted to his daughter,’ he recited. ‘Here lies Shostakovich, devoted to work, fame and football. Here lies Eliasberg —’ He prised a fish egg from under his fingernail. ‘Here lies Karl Elias —’ But he couldn’t finish his own epitaph. What was he devoted to?
‘Are you going to buy some of this, now you’ve put your mucky hands in it?’ The
A slim dark woman emerged from the jostling crowds. Nina Shostakovich kissed her on both cheeks, and turned to Elias. ‘May I introduce Miss Nina Bronnikova, a dancer with the Kirov. This is Mr Eliasberg, who leads our Radio Orchestra. Perhaps you already know each other?’
‘I don’t believe so.’ Nina Bronnikova’s black hair gleamed in the late sunlight. She stepped aside for a stall-holder, moving with a sinuous grace that reminded Elias of a fish. Eel! Dinner! Mother! Shopping! His thoughts were a jumble. There was an angel in the Haymarket! What did one say when introduced to a beautiful angel in a black shawl? But the moment for saying anything had long gone.
‘We were just discussing my husband,’ said Nina Shostakovich. ‘Mr Eliasberg tells me he is a genius.’
‘Most of Russia would agree.’ Nina Bronnikova smiled. There was a tiny scar above her mouth, running parallel to her lips.
‘Most of Russia doesn’t have to brew tea for a genius with a head cold. Nor explain to a genius why he has to eat codfish four nights in a row. Nor prevent him from attending a football match tomorrow, at which he will shout himself hoarse.’
Elias felt it was time he said something. ‘Oh, of course! Football!’ He’d intended to sound authoritative, but his voice came out more like a croak.
Nina Shostakovich and Nina Bronnikova swivelled, in beautiful unison, to look at him. ‘You’re a football fan?’
Elias cleared his throat. ‘The word “fan” might be overstating it. But I do take an interest. The game tomorrow is shaping up to be a good one.’
‘Are you a Zenith supporter like most of the men I know?’ Nina Bronnikova’s expression was unreadable as the sun blazed behind her.
‘Indeed! I never miss a home match, as long as my work schedule permits.’
‘Is that so?’ Her voice emerged, cool and direct, from the heart of the fiery glare.
‘The Moscow Locomotives don’t stand a chance.’ A new confidence flooded through him. ‘Dementiyev is the one to watch at present.’
Nina Bronnikova pulled her shawl around her shoulders. ‘How sad! It’s now a definitive truth. When it comes to the brutal sport of football, Ivan Sollertinsky is the only man in the world with his senses about him.’
Nina Shostakovich laughed. ‘And that’s despite the fact Dmitri wasted a considerable portion of his youth attempting to persuade Ivan that football is an art.’
Elias flushed. ‘I suppose I’d better get on, or there’ll be no supper tonight.’ But as he stepped back, he stumbled against the stall behind him, put out a hand to steady himself, and felt it sink into a rubbery mass of cheap caviar. ‘Oh, hell,’ he said for the second time that afternoon. ‘Well, goodbye! Please don’t feel obliged to shake hands.’ He tried to laugh. ‘You may have already heard that I’m a bit of a cold fish.’
Nevertheless, the two Ninas shook his hand politely before walking away together. Nina Shostakovich’s feet pointed straight ahead, as if plotting the most direct route home to her husband, and Nina Bronnikova’s toes turned outwards, her shining head tilted to catch what her friend was saying. Elias also strained to hear over the cries of the fishmongers. ‘Nikolai Nikolayev?’ he heard distantly. ‘Yes, a wonderful man. Tragically widowed. Devoted to his daughter.’ It sounded like a recommendation for a job — or an epitaph.
He began wiping his hands clean with some old sacking. ‘Here lies Nikolai, a man devoted to his daughter,’ he recited. ‘Here lies Shostakovich, devoted to work, fame and football. Here lies Eliasberg —’ He prised a fish egg from under his fingernail. ‘Here lies Karl Elias —’ But he couldn’t finish his own epitaph. What was he devoted to?
‘Are you going to buy some of this, now you’ve put your mucky hands in it?’ The
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