Night had fallen, cold, starlit and slightly threatening, as it so often does in the mountains. On the big oak table wine, bread and local sausage. Eight plates and eight glasses. Dmitry counted them in silence. He hadn’t opened his mouth once that day, since the morning, when Nwankwo had arrived on the bus. He knew, she had warned him. He had shouted at her: “You’ve got no respect for anything! Not your daughter, not your friends, not me! You’re the only one that counts, aren’t you?” And then Félix had turned up that afternoon, accompanied by the judge. They made a strange pair, those two, complete opposites but inextricably bound together. Dmitry had remained silent throughout, deaf to Jacques’s assurances that he, Jacques, was delighted to have some company in his house, and to Lira’s protestations that she had no choice in the matter, that it was a question of life or death. He remained angry. She had turned this refuge that he had found for his daughter into a revolutionary cell.
He found it quite unbearable – their joy at seeing each other again, exchanging news, supporting Lira. He was irritated by Nwankwo’s serious manner and Jacques’s wife’s exaggerated hospitality, all the trouble she was taking with these piles of plates and cutlery. As though they were just going to have a convivial dinner together. When the moment came for them all to sit down and raise their glasses at Jacques’s signal, Dmitry banged down on the table with his fist.
“So we’re drinking Lira’s health, are we?”
“Shut up, Dad!”
“You’re going to have to make a few wishes my girl! Your mother loves trouble and we don’t count any more!”
“Shut up!”
“I’ve already told you, they’ve taken every precaution before coming here,” Lira said calmly.
“What precautions? Look at yourself! Just look at yourself!”
“I can’t—”
“That’s what I’m telling you. What’s the point of precautions? It’s too late.”
“Stop this, Dad!” Polina shouted, clutching her mother.
“If anyone loves you here, it’s me,” he said, his jaw trembling.
Nwankwo got up. He was holding his mobile, useless here, but he wouldn’t let go of it.
“Dmitry,” he said, “We’re not madmen or heroes. We’ll leave soon, I promise you. But we couldn’t do anything else.”
“And you don’t think she’s paid enough! She’s blind, she can’t annoy anyone any more, they’ll leave her alone! But oh no, you’re still there, glued to her, with your stench of death. So is that your thing then, tucking up blind people at night? This woman was my wife and she’s the mother of my daughter – I’m responsible for her, so you can just bugger off!”
“I’m not your wife any more,” Lira said.
She knew how hard it was for him to hear her saying it. Even in the dark, even mutilated as she was, she didn’t want to be his wife. She would have liked to have been able to get up and replay one of the scenes that had preceded their separation and then go out slamming the door behind her. But she could no longer do that. From now on she would have to rely on sharp words, and leave the shouts and the crashing around and the slamming doors to others. Dmitry grabbed his jacket and his keys and left the room. A cold draught blew in and they all listened as the car drove off.
“He’ll be back,” Jacques said.