met before?’
‘Perhaps,’ the Russian said. ‘I was at school in Germany – the Berlin Boys’ Academy.’
Greg shook his head. ‘Ever been to the States?’
‘No.’
Lloyd said: ‘This is the guy with the same surname as you, Volodya Peshkov.’
Greg introduced himself. ‘We might be related. My father, Lev Peshkov, emigrated in 1914, leaving behind a pregnant girlfriend, who then married his older brother, Grigori Peshkov. Could we be half-brothers?’
Volodya’s manner altered immediately. ‘Definitely not,’ he said. ‘Excuse me.’ He left the bar without buying a drink.
‘That was abrupt,’ Greg said to Lloyd.
‘It was,’ said Lloyd.
‘He looked kind of shocked.’
‘It must have been something you said.’
It could not be true, Volodya told himself.
Greg claimed that Grigori had married a girl who was already pregnant by Lev. If that was the case, the man Volodya had always called father was not his father but his uncle.
Perhaps it was a coincidence. Or the American could just be stirring up trouble.
All the same Volodya was reeling with shock.
He returned home at his usual time. He and Zoya were rising fast and had been given an apartment in Government House, the luxury block where his parents lived. Grigori and Katerina came to the apartment at Kotya’s suppertime, as they did most evenings. Katerina bathed her grandson, then Grigori sang to him and told him Russian fairy tales. Kotya was nine months old and not yet talking, but he seemed to like bedtime stories just the same.
Volodya followed the evening routine as if sleepwalking. He tried to behave normally, but he found he could hardly speak to either of his parents. He did not believe Greg’s story, but he could not stop thinking about it.
When Kotya was asleep, and the grandparents were about to leave, Grigori said to Volodya: ‘Have I got a boil on my nose?’
‘No.’
‘Then why have you been staring at me all evening?’
Volodya decided to tell the truth. ‘I met a man called Greg Peshkov. He’s part of the American delegation. He thinks we’re related.’
‘It’s possible.’ Grigori’s tone was light, as if it did not much matter, but Volodya saw that his neck had reddened, a giveaway sign of suppressed emotion in his father. ‘I last saw my brother in 1919. Since then I haven’t heard from him.’
‘Greg’s father is called Lev, and Lev had a brother called Grigori.’
‘Then Greg could be your cousin.’
‘He said brother.’
Grigori’s blush deepened and he said nothing.
Zoya put in: ‘How could that be?’
Volodya said: ‘According to this American Peshkov, Lev had a pregnant girlfriend in St Petersburg who married his brother.’
Grigori said: ‘Ridiculous!’
Volodya looked at Katerina. ‘You haven’t said anything, Mother.’
There was a long pause. That in itself was significant. What did they have to think about, if there was no truth in Greg’s story? A weird coldness descended on Volodya, like a freezing fog.
At last his mother said: ‘I was a flighty girl.’ She looked at Zoya. ‘Not sensible, like your wife.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Grigori Peshkov fell in love with me, more or less at first sight, poor idiot.’ She smiled fondly at her husband. ‘But his brother, Lev, had fancy clothes, cigarettes, money for vodka, gangster friends. I liked Lev better. More fool me.’
Volodya said amazedly: ‘So it’s true?’ Part of him still hoped desperately for a denial.
‘Lev did what such men always do,’ Katerina said. ‘He made me pregnant then left me.’
‘So Lev is my father.’ Volodya looked at Grigori. ‘And you’re just my uncle!’ He felt as if he might fall over. The ground under his feet had shifted. It was like an earthquake.
Zoya stood beside Volodya’s chair and put her hand on his shoulder, as if to calm him, or perhaps restrain him.
Katerina went on: ‘And Grigori did what men such as Grigori always do: he took care of me. He loved me, he
