After Love by Subhash Jaireth

this and called Papa to come and meet him, at the same time handing Vasu a hairbrush. He noticed signs of irritation on my face and recoiled. I sighed. This would irritate Aunty Olga even more.
    I had advised him on the phone to come suitably dressed, in a nice jacket with matching tie, but he had decided to please himself and although the woollen jumper made him look fresh and young I still felt let down.
    After the introductions I ushered him into the library. He refused to sit on the sofa and moved to a chair next to Papa.
    Papa reached for his tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette. He could hardly have missed the expression on the face of Aunty Olga, who hated his smoking.
    We chatted. Papa said that our block, like many similar multi-storey apartments, had been constructed as a housing co-operative for scientists.
    â€˜It isn’t big but it suits us perfectly,’ he added. Aunty Olga complained how cold winds whistled between the towers and Papa explained that this was because of poor siting. If the blocks had been built a few hundred metres closer to the nearby pine forest, this would have provided a shield from the wind.
    Vasu was meanwhile studying our packed bookshelves.
    â€˜Anna calls this mess disorderly order,’ Papa said, looking slyly in my direction.
    â€˜Needs a massive cull,’ Aunty Olga snapped.
    â€˜Perhaps after I retire,’ said Papa, and both Aunty Olga and I laughed, because we knew this would never happen.
    Vasu laughed as well. As yet he hadn’t spoken a single word. To stir him up a little I reminded him of the bag he had brought with him, which was still sitting near the door. When he went to fetch it I followed him and whispered that he should cast off the dumbness he found so comfortable. But he just smiled and shrugged.
    Back in the library he opened the bag and took out his two presents: an LP for Papa and a scarf for Aunty Olga.
    He actually handed the woollen scarf to me. I pushed it away and pointed him in Aunty Olga’s direction. Papa seemed both pleased and humbled with the LP. He excused himself, went off and returned with the radiola from my room. He carefully removed the record from its sleeve, placed it on the turntable and gently lowered the needle. As it began to play he adjusted the bass and treble and fiddled with the volume. ‘This is such a rare recording,’ Papa said. It was the celebrated 1956 Verve release of Ella and Louis , the two jazz greats, in its original jacket. ‘You didn’t have to bring me anything, you know.’ But he was obviously pleased.
    â€˜Where did you find it?’ I asked Vasu.
    The smile on his face showed his own pleasure. It was only later that he told me how he had unearthed the record. Vladimir had given him a name and a phone number, and a meeting had taken place inside the Mayakovsky Metro station. A young hippie had handed him a bag and taken away two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes.
    Soon Aunty Olga ordered us to move to the dining table. As usual, she and not Papa took the seat at the head of the table. Papa and I sat on her right and Vasu sat facing us. Before she took her seat Aunty Olga turned the music down low and in the silence that followed I heard the muted humming of our old fridge. Outside the window the wind howled, occasionally penetrating the cracks. It had stopped snowing.
    It was only when we started eating that I noticed Aunty Olga was wearing Vasu’s violet woollen scarf.
    â€˜Isn’t it pretty?’ I said.
    â€˜And warm. Pure Cashmere, I think,’ she said. She looked at Vasu and actually smiled.
    The dinner was simple: borscht with onion, cabbage, potato, carrot and a small dollop of sour cream; chicken with walnuts and garlic; a potato and zucchini zapekanka with mushroom sauce (especially for Vasu); and for dessert, Aunty Olga’s special, a fabulous cheesecake. Papa opened two bottles of Romanian wine, a present from a colleague who had recently