On his third day in Voronezh, Vera came to see him. From the bedroom Leo heard the engine of the Volvo and, like a child whose parents have returned unexpectedly early, hurriedly began to straighten. There was the sound of the front door opening, the tap running in the kitchen, followed by the efficient strides of his wife. Who, until this moment, he had not realized was more competent than he was. ‘You are sick,’ she said, entering the bedroom.
‘Yes.’
Vera looked healthy and had on full makeup, as if she’d come directly from work. Normally Leo’s routine upon entering the dacha was to air it out, opening doors and windows – but he’d not possessed the energy, and he belatedly realized that the room bore the damp, decayed odor of a neglected basement. Vera sniffed the air and then fanned h
