Free The Steppes of Paris by Helen Harris Page B

something close to curtness, “Or d’you want to look round straight away?”
    Mademoiselle Iskarov ignored him. She stood and gazed around the tidied living-room, which now looked as though there were no one living there at all.
    “It is funny,” she said, “to see Volodya’s furniture but no Volodya.”
    “Sorry?” said Edward.
    Mademoiselle Iskarov caressed the back of the armchair Edward had been sitting in. “This was his favourite chair,” she said. She sat down in it and abruptly shut her eyes.
    “Would you like some coffee?” Edward offered somewhat helplessly. “And, forgive my asking, but who is Volodya?”
    Without opening her eyes, Mademoiselle Iskarov said, “Dyadya Volodya was my favourite uncle. This was his flat. He lived in it after he got divorced from my Aunty Ada, who was my least favourite aunt. In Russian yad means poison. When I was little, I used to call her Aunty Yada.” She opened her eyes to ask him, “Can you understand couples like that? One of them the sweetest, nicest, kindest person you could ever hope to meet and the other – a cow.” Without waiting for an answer, which Edward would, in any case, not have been able to give, she closed her eyes and continued, “He was a replacement father for me when I was growing up; he was better than a father. Certainly better than my father would have been if he had stayed around.” She stretched out both her arms and laid them palms down along the arms of the chair. “Volodya went to America and he was killed in a car crash. I ask you; survive everything else and then that. It was so stupid, so stupid; how could he have let it happen?”
    Her eyes sprang open and, seeing Edward’s fazed expression,she burst into disconcerting laughter. “What am I doing? I mustn’t give you ghosts.”
    She bustled out of the chair and over to the heap of packages which lay tipped on the settee. “Here, look, these are the keys and these are the light bulbs. They don’t click in, you understand; you need to twist them. And I’ve brought you a change of tablecloth. You can’t keep on using that green one all the time; it’ll get disgusting. And this is a lampshade for the bathroom. There isn’t one, is there? Something unfortunate happened to the last one. And this, laugh if you like, is a traditional Russian house-warming gift, rather late, I’m afraid: bread and salt.”
    She took the last two bundles from the heap and thrust them at Edward. “Here you are. I wish you health and happiness in your new home.”
    “Well, thank you,” said Edward. He looked uncertainly at the two brown paper parcels. “Am I – are we supposed to have it now, or what?”
    Mademoiselle Iskarov shrugged. “That’s up to you.” Then she seemed to thaw a little and added, “Though why not? You suggested coffee, didn’t you? We can have a mouthful with coffee.”
    She followed Edward into the kitchen. “Well, you keep it cleaner than your predecessor, I’ll say that.”
    Edward repeated, with perceptible irritation in his voice, “Do have a look round, if you want to.”
    To his surprise, Mademoiselle Iskarov seemed to take offence. “I didn’t come on a tour of inspection, if that’s what you think.” But, almost immediately, her offence seemed to vanish and she asked him, “Please put in a bit more coffee than that. I like it very strong.”
    It was embarrassing to realise, not having entertained any guests in the flat before, that he had no sugar, since he himself didn’t take any, and when he opened the fridge to get out the milk, he had to reveal that there was nothing inside it but a quantity of wine and a single piece of distinctly aged-smelling cheese.
    Largely to distract attention, he asked Mademoiselle Iskarov, “Would you like something a bit stronger with your coffee? I’ve got some whisky and some liqueur.”
    She clapped her hands. “Oh, thank goodness. You are a normal person with normal weaknesses; not a dreadfully proper young