The only painting is a huge, black canvas with a splattering of red across the surface. It doesn’t exactly scream “happy inner sanctum.”
“Why wasn’t your mother around much when you were children?” I ask.
I’m not really expecting an answer. But apparently, my employer is in a talking mood. “She and my father divorced when Yulian and I were very young. She left shortly after. Her calls became less and less frequent as we got older.”
“Do you still keep in contact with her?”
“Not for some time now. I have Yulian deal with her when she calls.”
“Deal with her?” I repeat. “You make it sound like a chore.”
“It is a chore,” he says without mincing his words. “I don’t know who the woman is at all. She’s a stranger who calls us up when she wants something. Ten grand for a new nose, fifty grand
