Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

The Same Way

Anya had never in her life driven that fast - or talked that much and for so long. He had him on the phone the whole time, and she told him of Varya's day at school, and of the unidentifiable goop that Sally had cooked for Anya and brought to the Hall to 'support Anya's recovery.' Judging by the colour, there was a lot of spinach - and possibly marsh water - in the dish. Anya also told him of the book on hospitality management that she was reading - and hated for its outdated human resource policy suggestions. She described the places she was passing and criticised other drivers on the road.

She was starting to worry that soon she would have nothing to say - when he asked her to tell him of herself. "What would you like to know?" she asked readily.

"Anything," he said. "Everything."

She spoke of her childhood, of her Father, and of her Mum, of her school years in Almaty. She retold him her favourite childhood books and films, and the Russian cartoons about a crow and other characters made of plasticine, and the Soviet Sherlock Holmes series, which was her most beloved adaptation. She recalled her Father's massive vinyl collection, and how she'd come to the tiny room that had served as his study and she'd sit on the floor next to his armchair, and they'd listen to Brel and Fontaine and Barbara and Brassens. She explained to him how an educated Jewish man of her Father's age had avoided the Gulag only because the Soviets needed his genius. She described his friends: all those interesting, complicated, gifted men, who smoked in their minuscule kitchen, argued philosophy, religion, and hypotheticals of technological progress, as well as banned literature and the ethical element of all those ground-breaking scientific discoveries they had been making on a daily basis. Every time Anya was sent to the kitchen to remind them to open the window, they would all start waving their hands in the air, chasing away the thick, bitter smoke of the cheap tobacco. They would call her 'young lady,' and speak to her in French and English and German and Yiddish - and laugh when she'd pout and refuse to answer in English, because she'd been embarrassed about her accent even then. 'It's alright,' her Father would say. 'An intelligent woman only needs French. Soon, they will open the borders and we'll 'ship' you to Paris, malysh. With your talent for maths and your hvatka, you'll do well. And imagine the museums, and the galleries, the music, the people, the conversations you'll have!' Hvatka was, as Anya found out later, what they called chutzpah in English Yiddish. She hadn't known then what he'd spoken of - but she could sense it had been a compliment and she'd smile proudly.

Klaus didn't say much through these two hours and a bit - but from time to time he'd let her know he was listening.

She decided she wouldn't tell him of the day her Father had simply collapsed in the street, on his way to his lecture; and how much it rained during his funeral.

She was just going to switch to a jollier topic, when Klaus said quietly, "I'll take you to Paris."

"Alright," she agreed lightly. "Do I have your word? Men always promise me things, and so far you're the only one who's ever delivered. So, now you have to."

He was silent again, and Any went on blabbering. Chronologically, her life, first in Liverpool, and then in Bristol - with Dom and her Mum, and then Dom and Varya - would be next. She avoided speaking of her Mum, remembering how much the talk of the illnesses and hospitals had affected him before. It surely would be the worst possible idea in their current circumstances as well. Dom seemed like a boring topic; plus reminding Klaus of Dom's habit could be triggering. She decided on Varya's childhood anecdotes: how much she used to be afraid of dogs, even the smallest ones, after a run-in with a Borzoi in a park; how she'd refused to eat soup with a spoon, stubbornly poking the bits with a fork and then drinking the rest; and how she used to call cauliflower florets 'cheese trees.' This gained Anya the first positive response from Klaus. His hardly audible, warm chuckle made Anya slightly lessen her painfully tight grip on the wheel.