care what other people think about me: I want to shock myself.’
She had liked him then. She hadn’t seen then the danger of his words, the literal seriousness of his desire to shock and destroy. They had met again at the Marmot’s, several times, talking earnestly. Maroussia had wondered if they might become lovers, but it hadn’t happened.
And now, he scarcely looked up when she came in. The studio was bitterly cold, but he was working regardless, in fingerless mittens and a woollen cap, the paint-spattered table at his side set out with jars and tubes and brushes. He painted hastily, with bold, rapid strokes, stabbing away at the immense canvas that towered above him.
‘Lakoba?’ said Maroussia. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
Petrov didn’t look round.
‘I will not paint you today,’ he said. ‘That picture is finished. They’re all finished. This is the last.’
‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘Can I look?’
He shrugged indifferently and turned away to busy himself at the table. Maroussia stared up at the picture he had made. It was colossal, like nothing he had made before. At the centre of it was a giant, laid out on a black road, apparently dead, his head and feet bare, surrounded by six lighted candles, each set in a golden candlestick and burning with a circle of orange light. A woman in a white skirt – suffering humanity – threw up her arms in grief. Dark, crooked buildings, roofed with blood, loomed around them. Behind the roofs and taller than all the buildings a man walked past, playing a violin. He seemed to be dancing. The lurid yellow-green sky streamed with black clouds.
‘This is good,’ she said. ‘Really good. It’s different. Has it got a title?’
‘It’s Vaso,’ he said. ‘The Death of the Giant Vaso, Killed in a Bank Raid.’ But he didn’t look round. Her presence seemed to irritate him.
‘Lakoba?’ she said. ‘I want to ask you something. It’s important. I want to find Raku Vishnik.’
Petrov didn’t reply.
‘Raku Vishnik,’ she said again. ‘I need to see him. He didn’t come to the Marmot’s last night.’ She paused, but he didn’t answer. ‘Lakoba?’
‘What?’ he said at last. ‘What did you say?’
‘Raku Vishnik. I need to find him. Quickly. I need his address.’
‘Vishnik?’ said Petrov vaguely. ‘You won’t find him during the daytime. He wanders. He always wanders. He’s on the streets somewhere. He walks.’
‘Where then? He wasn’t at the Marmot’s.’
‘No. I haven’t seen him there. Not for weeks.’
‘Where then?’
‘You must go to his apartment. At night. Late at night. Very late.’
‘What’s his address?’
‘What?’
‘Vishnik’s address? Where does he live?’
‘Oh,’ said Petrov vaguely. ‘He’s on Pelican Quay. I don’t know the house. Ask the dvorniks.’
For the first time he turned to look at her. Maroussia was shocked by how different he looked. He had changed so much in the weeks that had passed. His hair was wild and matted, but his face was illuminated with a strange intense distracted clarity. His pupils were dilated, wide and dark. He was staring avidly at the world, and at her, but he wasn’t seeing what was there: he was looking through her, beyond her, towards some future only he could see. And he stank. Now that he was close to her, she was aware that his breath was bad, his clothes smelled of sourness and sweat.
‘Something’s wrong, Lakoba,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
Petrov opened his mouth to speak again but did not. He looked as if his brain was fizzing with images… ideas… words… purpose – what he must do – But he could say nothing. He tried, but he could not.
‘Lakoba?’ Maroussia said again. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Go,’ he said at last. ‘You have to go now.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘You have to go.’
‘Why?’
‘I want you to go. I won’t need you again. Don’t come here again. Not any more.’
‘What are you talking about? What have I done?’
‘Everything is finished now. I am leaving it behind.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘There is no more to say. No more words. Words are finished now. Personal things don’t matter any more: my personal life is dead, and soon my body will also die.’
‘Lakoba—’
‘Go. Just go.’
Maroussia left Petrov to his empty room and the immense dead giant. Once again, for the second time in as many days, she walked away from a door that had closed against her. She didn’t want to go to work, and she didn’t want to go home – not home to her mother, trapped in quiet shadow, waiting silently, too terrified to leave the room, too