“What are you doing that for?” I asked. “Do you need me to help you?”

“And where were you earlier?” he snapped, dabbing himself with a cotton swab dipped in whisky.

It looked like he had back trouble, but he refused to talk about it out of pride and his perpetual penchant for drama.

He limped heavily back to the table and sat down in front of me. He washed his pills down with whisky.

“I never finished telling you about my sins, girl.”

I looked away, wiped the table with a napkin, and rearranged the saltshaker, the peppermill and cups. He smelled. As a child, I thought he smelled fine. Even when he had been drinking. I thought it was just the booze masking his natural musk. But now I distinctly caught the whiff of heavy sweat. And it dawned on me: Dad is an old stranger.

He tried to catch my eye.

“It happened shortly before your mum’s suicide. Grandma had slept all day. I told your mum to put a pot of soup on the stove and to turn the gas all the way up without lighting it, and then go off to work. You know Grandma always slept with the door open. I popped down to Yantarny, it was full and buzzing that day. You remember that bar from when you were little, you always wanted to lick the foam off the beer, remember? Then I went home. I climbed slowly up the stairs. I felt like a real villain, a killer, a hero. Without hurrying too much, I went in, holding my breath. I entered the kitchen, turned off the stove, threw open a window and looked inside the fridge. I washed my hands in the bathroom and finally went into her room. She just looked drowsy. I’m not the only bad guy here, though. When your mum hanged herself, she almost killed her too. Grandma would have starved to death if it weren’t for the neighbours.”

I tried to keep my nerves steady. I felt disgusted. I wanted to leave, but there was nowhere to go. The next day, I would either have to leave or find a hotel. I told him I was going to sleep. He insisted on me taking Grandma’s bed. “It’s all clean, the sheet, blanket, pillow, just go take a lie-down.” Hoping to fall asleep as soon as possible, I obeyed. The blue floral-pattern sheets were clean and gave off a hint of mothballs. Probably came out of Grandma’s cupboard. They lay there for years in anticipation of her death. He turned off the light and left, leaving the door open, then suddenly returned. Leaning against the doorpost, he said: “By the way, I have an idea for a new novel.”

I lay motionless with my eyes closed. I sank into a state of equanimity: there was nothing squalid about all this, this was just everyday life after all, there was a kind of humanity here, life marching onward. I realised why I didn’t want to get out of that marshrutka. I didn’t want to be infected by him, his way of living, to get bogged down like him.