“I’ve been on flights for the last God knows how long,” she explained. “And I haven’t had a chance to speak with my father. I don’t think Gabriel has either.” She did not look across but kept on as casually as she could. “Is our father helping?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I assumed…” Avery hesitated, but only for a second. “I assumed you had all had the chance to talk.”
“No. Not yet.” Isabella smiled adeptly. She could not tell how much Avery was reading into their strange lack of familial communication. “We were going to go through everything after we had spoken to you.”
“Right. Well, I should… I should fill you in.” The coffee was set down, and Avery was silent until the waiter had left. “I had a conversation with your father earlier today. Just after I spoke with you, Gabriel, this afternoon. Actually, he rang me. I’m sure he will tell you all of this… He was calling to confirm that he would be meeting all the expenses. Unfortunately, there is something of a cemetery… er, shall we say a cemetery system operating here in Petersburg, and, well, certain people have to be paid… Though as I say, everything is now settled on this score, as of this afternoon.” He sipped his coffee. “Once that side was sorted out, the rest was just a matter of contacting the relevant people at the hospital and the undertakers—and, of course, the people who organize the service itself. I have passed all three sets of details on to your father’s solicitors. I understand that it is his intention to meet these expenses as well. But as I say, once the cemetery is confirmed, and the service, the rest is comparatively straightforward. So Friday should, fingers crossed, be just a matter of details.”
Again she spoke quickly. “That’s really great news—about getting a space at the cemetery, I mean.” Only now did she risk a glance at her brother. He had his hand to his forehead and she could not see his face. “And it’s a massive relief to know that it’s all being done so quickly. Is it okay if I give you a call first thing tomorrow and check if there is anything you need us to do—once I’ve had a chance to catch my breath?”
“Yes, of course.” Avery raised a manicured finger and thumb to his stiff shirt collar. “I can be the liaison, if that’s helpful—in case your father gets through to me first, or you need a man on the ground, as it were.”
His eyes expressed genuine sympathy; an intelligent man, well used to dealing delicately with distressed human beings. And she was grateful for that kind “gets through”—as if there would really be any trouble with their father “getting through” to his children if he, or they, had wished it.
“Thank you—that might be useful.” She knew that the natural end of the conversation had been reached. She paused a moment and then asked, “Will there be an autopsy?”
Avery turned his head a fraction, as if to allow his left ear a chance to confirm the impressions of the right, but if he was surprised at this ambush, neither his face nor his manner betrayed it. “No. In the case of an older person’s death, where there are no suspicious circumstances, then there is not usually an autopsy.”
There was a moment’s silence. Avery slowly rotated his head. Though he had sensed the disquiet previously, Isabella had now taken him into a much murkier place altogether. And she realized that rather than adding anything to his statement, he would wait until she spoke again. Silence was his natural holding pattern; he was a diplomat, after all. She was just about to ask another question when suddenly, to her complete surprise, Gabriel sat forward for the first time.
“And there’s no problem with her being a British national… who defected and all of that?”
Again without changing tone or manner, Avery directed his attention to her brother. “Yes… you are right—it’s a strange situation. There might have been an issue with nationality. I was talking to your father about this. But… well, the truth is, I think we can assume that the Russians know who your mother is and that they don’t have a problem.” He finished his coffee, pleased perhaps to be back on familiar consular ground. “I would be amazed if they didn’t know her. They knew your grandfather of course, very well. And they will have known your father too. And all defections were treated with extra-special… er, attention, shall we say? So even if she used her married name when she came back, I’d be surprised if they did not know that she was Maria Gavrilov originally. In fact, your own surname, Glover, might well be flagged on their computers—I know it’s a common enough name, but they might well cross-check. Again, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
It was a clever putting-at-ease question of her brother’s, Isabella realized. He had interrupted only to move things on after her autopsy inquiry—as if to take over now that she had gone crazy. Perhaps she had.
Avery continued. “My guess, for what it’s worth, is that they used her original return application politically—granted her a visa to show that the new Russia was not the same as the Soviet Union. If anything, they will quite like the fact that as a Russian she wanted to be buried here. I don’t think we need worry about all of that.”
Isabella cut in. “Did my father say that he would be coming on Friday?” She knew this was brutal, but she also knew that the question had to be asked and that if she left her brother to his own devices, he would never ask it.
And this time Julian Avery’s hesitation was obvious. “No. No… Actually, he didn’t mention it. I… I presume he would want to be here, but I can’t—”
“Not necessarily.” It would be better if she just said it. “Our parents were separated.”
“I see.”
Gabriel did not allow the silence to lengthen. “And will the service be in the Russian Orthodox tradition?”
“Yes. Was that your mother’s faith?”
“Mum didn’t have any.” This from Isabella.
“But,” Gabriel pursued, “I assume that we have to have a Russian Orthodox service at the Smolensky?”
“Yes.” Avery nodded slowly. “It may be possible to arrange something else, but not before Friday.”
“Oh God no, don’t worry.” Isabella gave a wan smile. “Everything you have done is… is really helpful. We don’t want to change anything. We’re just grateful that it’s all going to be dealt with so painlessly.”
The security man passed behind them again, his face set and seeming to say, Terror does not sleep and neither do I.
She had dropped her bags in their room and now sat waiting for Gabriel to return. He had gone to fetch yet more cigarettes. This did not feel like the Russia she knew. Indeed, this hotel, this lobby bar, wasn’t her Russia, her Petersburg. In countless visits to the city, she had been here—what, twice before? Once with her grandfather, as she recalled. She looked around: two escort girls, laughing quietly and sipping their mineral water at one of the narrow tables in the corner; two slack-bellied businessmen drinking untidily at the bar, lecturing the blank-faced barman. An elderly American couple. It was past midnight. But something like midafternoon as far as her body was concerned. She knew for certain that she would not sleep, not soon, probably not at all. Indeed, ever since she had arrived, her brain had been moving so quickly that she had experienced the peculiar sensation of not being able to rely on reality, as if she were driving so fast that the scenery ahead was only just managing to construct itself in time, as if she were having to do far more than merely read the road, as if she were having to guess how the world was going to fashion itself. Their father had certainly outflanked them thus far—not only did he know about the death and the funeral plans, he was paying for everything already. But would he come? Gabriel’s only thought would be how to keep him away. And her brother was right: their father was all corruption and tarnishing; their father could find a way to taint even the truthfulness of sorrow. And yet she could not help wondering what he would feel—as a human being, if nothing else. What was her father feeling right now, for instance?