Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [31]
His voice was still strong and sonorous, and his eyes—easy to examine, enlarged as they were through the twin lenses of his spectacles—twinkled and sparked like the man he must have been fifty years ago. But his skin was so thin that it appeared blue from the ropy veins that were now so close to the surface.
He made a great fuss over Alli, believing, as most people did, that she was much younger than she was. Jack thought it interesting that Alli didn’t disabuse him of his mistake. Possibly, he thought, it was out of deference to Dyadya Gourdjiev’s extreme age, but it seemed just as likely that she was in need of the coddling the old man provided without hesitation or wanting anything in return. She was not immune to his obvious pleasure in her.
When the tea had been served in glasses set in metal holders with handles, and the cookies nibbled on, at least by Alli, Dyadya Gourdjiev finally sat in a large leather chair that exuded like perfume the odors of sweet tobacco and lanolin.
“I must say, Annika, you always arrive with fascinating people in tow and under—well, what would one say—remarkable circumstances.” Dyadya Gourdjiev chuckled like a Dutch uncle. “I imagine that’s one of the reasons I so look forward to your visits.” He leaned forward and patted her hand aff ectionately. “Which, despite being exhausting, are too few and far between for this old man.”
“You’re not old,” Annika said. “You’ll never be old.”
“Ah, youth,” said Dyadya Gourdjiev, addressing everyone in the room now, “forever flirting with the concept of immortality!” He chuckled again, as if signaling that he forgave Annika her delusion. “The truth is when you get to be my age living becomes a deliberate act of will. Nothing works quite right, the mechanics, the mechanisms of the body and the mind so interconnected begin to erode, and yet we go on.” He squeezed the hand he’d just caressed. “Because of those who love us and those we love most fiercely. In the end, there’s nothing else to life, is there?”
“No, Dyadya Gourdjiev,” Annika said with tears in her eyes, “there isn’t.”
The old man took out a linen handkerchief, newly washed, pressed, and meticulously folded. Like an opthalmologist, he used one corner to soak up each tear before it slid down her cheeks. “Now, little one, tell me what mischief you’ve got up to this time.”
Annika flicked a quick complicit glance Jack’s way, possibly to warn him to keep quiet before addressing the old man. “This is one time I think saying nothing is the best option.”
For a moment Dyadya Gourdjiev said nothing. While they had chatted, sipping their tea and nibbling on sugar cookies, the light from outside was caught in the sheer lace curtains on either side of the windows, honing their outlines, lending them a substance they otherwise would never have. Now that weight gathered in the room so densely time itself seemed to slow to a crawl. Everyone—even Alli, whose attention was apt to wander—was watching Dyadya Gourdjiev for a reaction, as if they were scientists drawn to a volcano they feared would erupt after decades of uninterrupted slumber.
“I don’t like the sound of that, little one,” he said after a time during which he appeared to be struggling with his response. He pulled out a thick manila packet, which he opened. Tipping it, he slid out three passports. “Now that you’re an American, little one, you no longer need a visa to enter Ukraine, but I’ve provided one in the event you choose to be Russian once again.”
“Thank you, Dyadya Gourdjiev.”
She leaned forward, gathering up the documents, but as she moved to stuff them back into their manila envelope, the old man put a hand over hers, stopping her.
“You must answer me this, little one: Do you think I’m too old to be of help beyond what I’ve already provided?”
Annika appeared alarmed. “No, not at all, Dyadya Gourdjiev, it’s just that I . . .”
Jack immediately saw his opportunity