Chapter 34
In one corner of his shop, Levchenko keeps a small television on a stool, where he can see it from his seat behind the counter. He is sitting there now, his elbows resting on the counter, watching the press conference unfold live on the twenty-four-hour news channel.
There has been a steady stream of customers and browsers for most of the afternoon, but for the moment the shop is empty and he is alone.
Jasmina is in the back room, tidying his pans and polishing away dabs of spilled wax from the gas burner.
She is more fastidious than he is. Occasionally, it drives him to distraction, but he also knows it is one of the things he would miss most about her if she was gone: that ultimately we love the rough edges of people more than the smooth surfaces.
He also knows that, for her, cleaning has become a way of erasing thoughts, of keeping them at bay.
For him, in some strange way, it is the opposite.
But they are both coping strategies. One removes; the other attempts to ignore.
Regardless, he is glad she is otherwise occupied right now.
That she does not have to see this.
But then he senses Jasmina emerge from the room behind the counter. Instinctively he picks up the remote control and turns the television off, making it as natural a gesture as possible. His wife bustles past him without noticing.
‘You are running low on pellets,’ she says.
‘Yes.’
‘And red dye too. Mind you –’ she gestures around the empty shop with a flap of her arms, as though the lack of customers is another black spot she would like to clean, ‘– it is not like there is any urgency.’
‘No.’
He is still staring at the silent television screen. On the surface, his mind is equally blank, and by a similarly deliberate act of will. Like the television, it would take very little effort for him to bring his thoughts back to life …
‘Are you all right?’
Jasmina is staring at him with a curious frown.
He blinks at her and, for a moment, has no idea how to answer.
It is suddenly as though this woman is a stranger to him, a person he has no idea how to communicate with.
The press conference on the television – the sight of the detective – has taken him back to a time when they might easily have separated, and accelerated him forward on the path they did not take, a path where she would not be here.
He shakes his head, dispelling the image. This is his wife.
Despite everything, they have weathered their lives and managed not to come apart. His heart – his whole chest – fills with love for her, like blood spilling back into a numb arm. He smiles.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, my love. I was wool-gathering.’
She harrumphs. But the look on her face says she can believe it and that, while it drives her to distraction, it is a rough edge of his that she loves him for in return. In such ways, he realises, do relationships grow over time. We begin by looking for perfection; we end up by loving flaws.
‘I am going out for a while,’ she says, smiling. ‘Since you are ignoring me.’
He smiles back. ‘Very wise.’
‘That is why you love me.’
‘One of the many reasons,’ he says. ‘Still.’
‘Still.’
Her smile takes on a slightly different character now, one that warms him.
Most of the time, the love he feels for her is so intense it is a physical thing in the room between them.
When they are separated, the thing blurs and doubles, one part with each, so that they remain together.
It really is something, he believes, to have shared your life with someone for so very long.
Even a life touched by tragedy. As though there are other kinds of lives.
‘I won’t be long,’ she says.
‘You take care.’
‘And you. Be careful with all this hard work.’
The bell tinkles as she opens the door – and then Levchenko is alone once more.
He switches the television back on. Jasmina is sensitive. Reports such as this one, on crimes such as these, would only upset her. They would bring back memories. She might even recognise the detective from his name.
As the press conference reaches its conclusion, Levchenko watches Detective Hicks and remembers. It is a name – and a face – that he will never forget. And just as he has returned the television to life, so he allows his thoughts and emotions to rise to the surface too.
What does he feel now, looking at the policeman? It is difficult to describe in words. Difficult to quantify and weigh.
Hate?
No, he thinks.
Not that.
Hate is not strong enough.