‘Sir?’
An apprehensive looking Chandler Delcade stuck his head around the door to Greg’s classroom.
‘Come in, Chandler. Take a seat.’ Greg pointed to what looked like a table covered with a large blue drop cloth, though it was, in fact, simply two desks jammed together. The damaged Vostok sat on top of it, surrounded by small tins of model paint, varnish, solvent, some fine-pointed paintbrushes, various cloths, and sandpaper. Seated and forced to look at the results of his earlier vandalism, the Delcade boy looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘You have your phone with you, I hope?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Chandler was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. The use of phones was essentially forbidden at Calderhill Academy. Every classroom had a table where students had to deposit them for the duration of the lesson. For a teacher to require the use of a phone was a rare thing indeed.
‘Good. I’ve emailed you the link to a how-to video. In this case, how to fix the damage you inflicted on my ships. You have everything you need right in front of you, so get to it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Chandler?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Chandler pulled out his phone, looking appropriately intimidated by the nature of the task ahead of him. Greg had little doubt the boy would make a hash of the whole thing, and was resigned to sending his ships away for expensive restoration. But that wasn’t the point. Chandler Delcade needed to understand how much damage he’d caused, how difficult it was going to be to put it right.
And that was just for what he’d done to the models.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ve sent me two links.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hmmmm. Come show me.’
The boy approached, holding the phone in front of him as if it were a crucifix to Greg Abimbola’s vampire.
‘This one,’ Greg said, barely looking at the screen, ‘is the link to the video. And this one is about one of Pushkin’s grandfathers. You’ve heard of Pushkin, of course.’
‘N … no sir.’
‘Only the greatest poet, playwright, and novelist who ever lived. Certainly up there with Shakespeare and –’ Greg allowed himself an impish smile – ‘Agatha Christie.’
‘Agatha Christie, sir?’ Chandler appeared to be very sure that Greg was pulling his leg, less sure about how to react.
Greg picked up the copy of Desyat Negrityat that was lying on his desk.
‘Do you know who wrote this?’
Chandler’s complete inability to read Cyrillic didn’t stop him from hazarding a guess.
‘Agatha Christie?’
‘Exactly,’ Greg said, smiling. ‘This book alone has sold over a hundred million copies in any number of languages – including Russian. And it’s been selling solidly, year after year, since 1939. That’s a lot of years, Mr Delcade. In fact, the only author on the planet who’s sold more than Agatha Christie is William Shakespeare – and he had a three-hundred-year head start.’
‘Cool,’ Chandler said. He was at least pretending to look impressed. ‘But what about the Bible? I thought nothing beat that. At least, that’s what my mom and dad say.’ The boy’s face clouded over. He was realizing, perhaps, that he could never say ‘mom and dad’ in the present tense ever again.
‘The Bible sells more,’ Greg agreed, gently. ‘But it doesn’t have a single author, like a William Shakespeare or Agatha Christie. It’s more like a library of books, written by different people, hundreds and thousands of years apart.’
‘God wrote the Bible.’
‘People wrote the Bible, Chandler. Inspired by God, I’m sure. But I don’t think God himself ever put pen to paper. I don’t think God has actual, you know, hands. Some of it is the word of God, and some of it is what the people who wrote it say is the word of God, which is not the same thing. It’s what makes the Bible so tricky. You have to make some tough decisions about which parts of it you believe.’
The words twisted Greg’s stomach into an unexpected knot. Was he trying to excuse his own degenerate urgings? He imagined the Devil whispering in his ear, the voice sweet and soothing, the gentle cadence of a therapist. Ignore what that stupid old book says. It’s all a lie, and you know it. The ravings of a bunch of prehistoric bigots. You can feel it, can’t you? The dishonesty of it. The hypocrisy. What does God care about such things? God, who is so much bigger than your petty little world. Do what you feel. Be yourself. Your true self. Be free …
He shepherded his mind onto greener, safer pastures.
‘But we’re not here to study the Bible, or William Shakespeare, or Agatha Christie – or even the great Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin. In addition to fixing my ships, you will write fifteen hundred words on Abram Petrovich Gannibal, Pushkin’s grandfather. Who he was, where he came from, and what he means to the world today.’
Chandler Delcade looked appalled. Sufficiently appalled to make Greg wonder if he was being too hard on the kid. And then, remembering what the boy had scrawled on the side of his ships, he pushed the thought aside.
‘The link will get you started, Mr Delcade. You can hand it in by the end of the week.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The boy lapsed into awkward silence. He sat down at the table, his head obscured by the Vostok’s high masts, and watched the video. Video complete, he started wiping the side of the vessel with a soft cloth, cleaning the surface before trying to fix it. The movements were surprisingly delicate. At least the boy seemed to be taking the task seriously.
Greg, making his way through the pages of Desyat Negrityat, kept a weather eye on Chandler’s progress. The boy was pushing on, determined to get the damn thing over with, no doubt. He worked diligently, between bursts of texting, or whatever else teenagers did on their phones these days.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t get the top off this paint tin.’ The boy was holding the tiny can of modeler’s paint between thumb and forefinger.
‘Here, let me,’ Greg said, getting up from his desk. He reached into his pocket for a penknife – a habit from his previous life that he’d never quite been able to shake. The blade made short work of the recalcitrant lid. The sweet, oily odor of modeler’s paint wafted into his nostrils.
‘Sir, can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Was Pushkin’s grandfather … African American?’ The boy’s voice was hesitant, wary of causing further offense.
He’d been doing something more productive on his phone than texting, apparently.
‘I don’t think Abram Petrovich Gannibal ever lived in America, Chandler.’ He said it kindly, though, pulling some of the sting.
‘So he was … African?’
‘Yes. An African who became Russian. And a pretty distinguished one at that.’
‘I didn’t know there were any … Black Russians.’ He said the word ‘Black’ with the peculiar intonation of white Americans. Like he’d just stepped on a landmine.
Greg, thinking suddenly of the cocktail, gave the boy a quick grin.
‘Not many. Not as many as there are here, for sure. But there are definitely a few.’
‘Not a lot of people know that, I bet.’
‘You got that right. Not even Russians.’
The boy grinned, bent his head down to the ship. Time slipped by in surprisingly good-natured silence, considering it was detention, and considering what the detention was for. Every time Greg glanced up from his book, he found the boy working diligently, tongue poking from his lips as he dabbed deftly at the Vostok’s sides. And then, minutes before detention was due to end for the day, Chandler raised his hand.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m done.’
Greg swallowed back his surprise.
‘Let’s have a look, then, shall we?’
He strolled across to the table, its drop cloth now spattered with tiny flecks of paint. Bent down to examine the defiled side of the Vostok. Let out a low whistle.
‘That, Mr Delcade, is very good work.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
It really was. The boy had a knack – though whether for modeling or for following instructional videos to the letter, Greg couldn’t be sure. Either way, you could no longer see the original damage. It wasn’t good as new, but it was still pretty good.
‘Do the same with the Mirny tomorrow and your debt to society will be paid. At least as far as detention is concerned. I still want the essay, though. Friday.’
To Greg’s surprise, the boy looked disappointed.
‘Why the long face? I thought you’d be happy to get out of here.’ An ironic raising of the eyebrow. ‘You can have detention all week if you’d rather.’
‘Could I? Seriously?’ The boy’s eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.
Greg threw him an appraising look.
‘Better here than home, eh?’
The boy nodded.
‘Vicki’s crying all the time, and Dad’s just worried about politics, and people keep coming around asking how I am, which is like the most stupid question ever.’
‘Then detention it is. Until the Mirny is fixed, or you want your freedom – whichever is later.’
The boy’s unvarnished gratitude shone out of his face. Greg was slightly disturbed that Chandler Delcade viewed his classroom as some kind of haven. That he looked upon a teacher whom he’d racially insulted, and who had subsequently punished him, as a benefactor. Maybe it was because of those things that the boy felt safe here. There would be no cloying sympathy from Mr Abimbola. No pious pity. Just the banal normality of school.
‘Seeing as you’re going to be around for a while,’ he said, ‘let me ask you something. What’s politics got to do with your mother’s death?’
Chandler’s expression darkened.
‘Dad wants to run for congress. He’s piss … he’s worried that Mom’s death will hurt his chances. He needs …’ The boy struggled to find the correct words. ‘Endorsements and donors. The dude spends every minute he’s not at work whining and sucking up on the phone. He didn’t even want me to get detention because he was worried there’d be a written record, and someone would leak it to the press. And at the funeral, he was like …’ The words drained away. ‘Whatever. It’s all bull … It’s not about Mom at all. It’s just about him.’
He lapsed into sullen silence. Perhaps he was already regretting exchanging one type of intrusion for another.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe it’s just your dad’s way of coping.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘How’re you getting home?’ Greg asked, changing the subject. ‘Or do you have sports today?’
‘My aunt’s picking me up. She’ll text when she gets here.’
‘Your dad’s at work, I suppose?’
‘Uh-huh. Dad leaves home early, around six, and he’s never back till late, so Aunt Barb’s been taking us to school and back – even though her car’s like, tiny.’
Aunt Barb, it turned out, was extremely punctual. The boy’s phone announced the arrival of her text message with a cheerful chirp, at precisely the moment detention was scheduled to end. Chandler grabbed his things and headed out the door, leaving it slightly ajar in his wake.
Greg stared after him for some minutes, lost in thought. Then, reaching a decision, he unhooked his coat from the door’s lightly scuffed back and headed out.