4

He was sleeping so deeply he thought he was still dreaming when the noise of a car’s horn woke him. Then he heard it again, closer this time, and the noise of the engine spluttering and coughing as it approached the house. He squinted over and saw Oxana and another maid running out of the dacha, having already taken off their aprons, to greet their master. The motor-car came to a stop, as the brake was pulled up stoutly.

Alyosha swung his feet over the hammock, stood up and brushed himself down. He was wearing a light cotton suit, a wide-brimmed straw hat and his new smart white shoes that were always made for him every year, especially for the holidays. He made his way over to the wrought iron gate, and saw through the bars that Ivan Kirilich, the chauffeur, had put his hat on for the occasion. Fyodor Mikhailovich stepped out into the sun in his braces and bowler hat, his dark jacket over one arm and two newspapers, theRyetchand theNovoye Vremyaunder the other.

Alyosha felt a little ashamed of his father. His whole appearance seemed so awkward and inappropriate in such fierce heat. He used to be a handsome man with a thick head of hair and a luxuriant black moustache, but he had begun to put on weight and become jowly, and he puffed and panted a lot more than he used to when he took any exercise. His eyes too were always red-rimmed these days, and were a little painful to look at.

His father nodded at him.

‘’Lyosha, how are you? Where’s your mother?’

She called his name, and Fyodor Mikhailovich turned to see her standing on the steps. He beat his hat lightly against the balustrade to rid it of some of the dust of the journey, then stepped towards her. Still two steps above him, Inessa bent from the waist and offered her cheek to her husband’s parched lips.

‘How are things?’

‘As well as expected.’

Inessa insisted on wearing a wide-brimmed hat at all times to protect her skin from the sun, so she was still snowy-white. As everybody else had caught the sun, this made her look as though she came from a strange tribe. Fyodor blew his lips and smoothed down his moustache with his finger and thumb.

‘It’s been hotter,’ she informed him.

‘How are the mosquitoes this year?’

‘Not too troublesome.’

‘Do you have difficulty sleeping?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Let’s hope I don’t either.’

They seemed to have run out of things to say; there was a moment of silence.

‘So everything’s going well then?’

‘So far.’

He bared his teeth and smiled at her. Inessa turned and entered the dacha and Fyodor followed in her footsteps, like some local tradesman come to deliver the weekly order. Alyosha dawdled some distance behind them.

His mother accompanied his father to his bedroom, the clatter of their shoes on the parquet drowning out their voices.

Alyosha could never remember a time when they had slept together. Their bedrooms were separate worlds, their own private domains. So it was back in Petrograd; so it was also on holiday in the Crimea.

He never saw his mother enter his father’s bedroom, though on many occasions he heard his father shuffling over to his mother’s room: a shadow moving soundlessly across the strip of light under his door as he passed; a light rap and a whispered ‘Inessa?’. Sometimes the shadow would move back and forth for a little while before he heard the door open. Other times there would be silence…

The next day Fyodor Alexandrov went with his family