‘Your Eastern Orthodox churches don’t appear to be very BAME friendly,’ Dianna said, sipping gently at the day’s third mug of tea. Her slim fingers were curled inside the mug’s handle. A weakening afternoon sun picked out small gleams in dark, immaculately applied nail polish.
Morosov looked up from his computer, frowning.
‘“Bame”? What is this bame?’
‘Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic,’ Dianna explained, crisply. ‘As far as I can tell, there are almost no BAMEs in any of the churches you’ve been having me look at.’
‘Not interested in BAMEs. No Asian, no minority ethnic. Only blacks. Thick lips, fat noses, hair like – what you say? – brillo pad.’ He ignored Dianna’s disapproving stare. ‘Target is black, like monkey. Belong to Eastern Orthodox. Very rare, like you say. Should be very easy to see, like lump of coal in iceberg.’ He laughed at his own joke. When Dianna didn’t respond, he assumed a more businesslike demeanor. ‘You say “almost”. You find some black people for me?’ He wandered across to Dianna’s desk and peered over her shoulder, his attempt to enjoy her breasts in the process defeated by the annoyingly baggy sweater. ‘What have you got?’
‘Just these three – well two-and-a-half, really.’ A large image suddenly filled her computer screen. ‘There’s this one.’
‘Nyet. This is black family receiving charity because they too lazy to work. Not member of church.’
‘And this. But I think he’s just a passerby.’
‘Da. Not of use.’
‘And then there’s this one,’ Dianna said, hesitantly. ‘I can’t be sure, but …’
‘But what? Is just picture of church fete. Normal white people. Almost white people. They are Greek-American, yes?’ He tapped the picture’s caption, which identified the bearded, black-robed priest in the center of it all as a Father Kyriakos.
‘Yes. But look here …’ Dianna blew the picture up. Father Kyriakos disappeared out of shot. She directed Morosov’s attention to a figure in the background. The slim silhouette was not part of the group. He – if it was a he – was standing apart, hands in pockets, caught in the shadow of an ornate, overhanging balcony. ‘I can’t tell if it’s just the shadow, but his hair is very short, don’t you think? And the skin tone—’
‘Is maybe black, maybe not,’ Morosov finished for her. The picture was too indistinct to manipulate the silhouette into something more substantial. He pulled his lips against his teeth, making an absent-minded sucking noise.
It had been three years. The figure looked familiar.
But it could just as easily be a trick of the light.
‘Send me copy,’ he ordered. ‘Then make tea.’ He tapped Dianna’s screen. ‘This … this I need think about.’
Dianna’s jeans were considerably tighter than her sweater, so he enjoyed watching her bending over the kettle. The distraction was all too short, however. His gaze returned to the indistinct outline in the shadows of St Andrew’s Orthodox Church, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Morosov continued to stare at it, face impassive, his mind traveling back in time and halfway across the world. He seemed not to notice as the first hints of night placed twilit fingers on the windowsill.