Dmitry hung up the phone. His daughter had called to say she had a surprise for him, and he had one for her, too. He was feeling better after a good night’s sleep, and his mother was still asleep on the sofa, a tiny silver leaf curled up under a cigarette-burned hotel blanket. They’d stayed up too late catching up on the last twenty years. Dmitry hadn’t had the heart to tell her the paintings were missing.
As he made tea in the kitchenette, he remembered how much he’d loved tea and toast with marmalade when he was a boy. Sometimes he and his mother would have tea together in the afternoon when no one else was in the house, just the two of them.
His mother sat up, rubbing her eyes, and he brought her a cup of tea, then sat in the easy chair across from her.
“Can I ask you something, Moth
