LITMIR.BIZ

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      Claude was kissing his feet again and he kicked him harder, this time in the belly. Claude let out a cry of pleasure. ‘Again!’ he called. Mikhail watched him squirm on the floor.

      Too long, was the answer that came into his head, much, much too long.

      It was a whole year after Miss Clayburg had left the house at Cape Cod, and nothing much more had happened other than Evangeline growing another inch and her grandmother having her heart broken for the second time.

      The old lady never said a word, but Evangeline knew she had pinned great hopes on her being artistically gifted. She still went up to the studio to try long after her tutor was gone, but one day the door was just locked and that was obviously an end to it. Evangeline would have been relieved, but her disappointment stung like salt on a scratch.

      She wanted to do well so badly that it hurt. If Grandma Klippel was searching for another Darius, then she was looking, too, for some special talent to make her worthy of her parents’ love, even though she knew they were dead now. Sometimes she got angry rather than sad and wished she had a flair so that they might have realized too late what they’d missed and regret not taking her with them. She even wrote small scripts in her workbook:

       DARIUS: Did you reelize Evangeline had flair as an artist too, dear?

       THEA: No i never new that. she was always such a plain child that i never held out much hope for her. Perhaps we made a misstake, Darius. Perhaps she shuld be here with us now, after all.

      When she had finished writing she would always tear the pages out and screw them up into small balls, just in case. She didn’t think Grandma Klippel ever came snooping but if she did Evangeline didn’t want her finding out her son and his family were all dead. Sometimes she wished Cecil was still there so she could discuss things with someone. She even asked her grandmother if she had his address, but was told he was back in Britain and wouldn’t want to be bothered by letters from little girls he hardly knew.

      Then something strange happened.

      Evangeline was called out of class one wet September day and sent home early. All the way back in the car she worked over what might have occurred but nothing came to mind – apart from the extreme long shot that Patrick might have found his way back.

      When they got to the house Grandma Klippel was not on the porch as usual but waiting in the best lounge beside a tray of tea. Evangeline had not been in the room much before. Someone had taken the sheets off the chairs and there was a fire burning and spitting in the hearth; they had put pine logs on the fire and the smoke smelt sweet. Mrs O’Reilly must have been up earlier than usual because there was the biggest bunch of anemones ever in a porcelain bowl on the centre table.

      The room itself was mainly reds and rose pinks, and would have looked jolly enough had it not been for the expression on Grandma Kippel’s face. Her nose was as crimson as the wallpaper and she looked like she had a cold. Her eyes were swollen and her hands looked fidgety. When she picked up her cup it danced noisily in its saucer.

      There was a man in the room. Evangeline thought he must be the new chauffeur, even though she had no idea the old one was leaving. The man was no taller than her grandmother but he had thick hands that were making heavy work of the bone china. His dark hair was cut short and greased back and he wore a suit that looked wrong for his body. He smelt faintly of frying, as though he had stopped off at the diner on the journey down from wherever he lived.

      ‘Evangeline,’ her grandmother said, ‘… dear, this is Mr Castelli.’

      He had a good-looking face, even though he was nervous. Evangeline stepped forward to take his hand, wondering why it was so important for her to meet the new chauffeur.

      ‘Mr Castelli is your father, Evangeline, your real father.’

      She stopped before their hands touched. The man gave her grandmother what looked like an angry glance before turning back to stare at her. It made her itchy-uncomfortable.

      ‘Darius is my father.’ She knew she’d used the wrong tense but anything else would have hurt her too much to say it.

      Grandma Klippel’s face looked funny, as though she wanted to sneeze and was trying not to.

      ‘Darius was only your father because he married your mother, Evangeline. When he adopted you he took you for his own, I know that. But Mr Castelli is your father by blood. Do you understand? He was married to your mother before she met my son.

      ‘I know she told you about him. Darius was always insistent about discussing things frankly. Do you remember?’

      Evangeline nodded. She had always known she had two fathers but she’d thought this one didn’t matter because she had never even seen him. He had a wide neck, like a boxer. His tie was done up, but the top button of his collar was left undone. Evangeline wished he hadn’t done that because she knew her grandmother would not approve. She liked men to look properly smart, it was something she often remarked on. A person’s dress was a strong guide to their character, as far as Grandma Klippel was concerned. Mr Castelli would have been tested and found wanting. He had sallow-looking skin and a strong, beefy nose.

      ‘You look just like your mother, Evangeline,’ he said.

      ‘No,’ Evangeline told him wisely, ‘I look just like you.’

      Mikhail waited until Claude was at work before ransacking the apartment. Things had got out of hand. Tincan had been right: you had to get on. Nothing else mattered – it was stupid to pretend that it did. He threw things from cupboards and broke plates and glasses against the walls. He found Claude’s savings beneath the mattress on his father’s bed. The old man had said nothing as he took it, just stared at him with an evil glint in his eye. Maybe he had known Mikhail was living there. Maybe other boys had done the same thing.

      Claude’s payments had never materialized after the first week. Mikhail had reminded him many times but Claude always came up with an excuse. For a man who worked in a bank he seemed strangely forgetful when it came to cash.

      Mikhail counted out the exact amount he was owed and then sat staring at the rest. Put yourself first. Nothing else matters. He took a few notes more, then he put them back. Then he stuffed the whole wad into his pocket. Then he pulled it out again. Was he a thief or not? He couldn’t decide.

      The long winter was over. As the snow cleared Mikhail had started cleaning the windows of Claude’s apartment of all their dust and grime, so that he could look out onto the small square below. He went out so little that his skin was unnaturally pale. He was a little fatter now, and Claude had bought him new clothes.

      When Claude went out he would read or sleep and when he came back they would talk or he would pose for more photos. He also liked to take baths – lots of them – because he always felt dirty.

      There was a smear on the glass. He licked his sleeve and wiped the smear off with spit. The more the sun shone the more oppressive the apartment had become. Claude would never turn the heating down because he said it was bad for his father’s health. When he came home he would take off his suit and wear a cotton kimono instead.

      Watching other children in the square below was the most painful thing of all. There were boys of his age down there, playing football and messing about. He used to look at himself in the mirror sometimes, asking himself why he had deserved such a fate.

      Claude liked to pose as much as he liked taking photos. Mikhail had discovered this fact while rooting out some photos of him in a suitcase under the bed.

      ‘Show me what to do and I’ll photograph you,’ he told Claude the next time they did some shots together. Claude had been selling the shots of him now, he was sure of it – not paying Mikhail for the posing, while he was getting paid well himself. He had tried not to think of all the men who must have looked at them.

      Claude had looked pleased with Mikhail’s suggestion. He had shown Mikhail all the basics: how to set the lights, how to focus, and how to frame a shot. Then he’d sat coyly in front of the camera, beaming,

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