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Mikhail Baranski opened his eyes.
Nico had to act quickly to smother his shock. All his father’s vibrancy had gone. It looked as if someone had placed Clingfilm over his eyeballs.
Through the mask Nico could see his father trying to talk. As far as he was aware Mikhail had not uttered a word since the stroke occurred.
‘I am going to take the mask off,’ he said to the nurse who was hovering behind him.
‘That is not advisable.’
He quelled her with a look. ‘I wasn’t asking permission.’
If she’d wanted to argue about it, whatever she saw in Nico’s eyes warned her of the futility. Instead she turned on her heel and left the room—no doubt to find a doctor and report him.
Alone with his father, Nico pulled a chair as close as he could to the bed without knocking any of the equipment and took a seat. He lifted the mask, taking care not to remove it completely.
‘Nicolai?’ Only the right-hand side of Mikhail’s mouth worked, and his words were a laborious slur.
‘I’m here, Papa,’ he said, clasping his fingers around Mikhail’s withered hand.
The shrunken chest heaved. ‘Your wife? Here?’
‘Rosa?’ Nico had to fight the instinct to squeeze his fingers at the mention of her. His father felt so fragile he feared he would snap the bones in his hand. ‘No, she’s not here.’
The filmy eyes blinked. Was that reproach he detected in them?
And then it came to him. The last time he had seen his father a few short months ago he had promised he would bring Rosa on his next visit. In one of his more sober moments Mikhail had confessed a longing to meet his daughter-in-law. Nico had thought it wise not to confide that his marriage was one of convenience. He’d had a gut feeling his father would not approve.
Mikhail took another deep breath. ‘Picture?’
‘You want to see a picture of Rosa?’
A blink.
‘Let me check my wallet.’ He knew the gesture was pointless. Why would he carry a picture of Rosa with him? But to say that would be cruel.
After replacing the oxygen mask securely, he dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and pretended to rummage through it, stopping short when his fingers brushed the creased edge of a photo he had not looked at properly for a decade.
With hands that were not quite steady he pulled it out and stared at the faded picture of his mother. The colour quality had dulled dramatically over the years, but nothing could diminish the vibrancy of her ebony hair or the sweetness of her smile.
‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t seem to have a picture of Rosa on me.’
Mikhail’s eyes fixed on the small photo in Nico’s hands.
‘It’s a picture of Mama,’ he explained, turning it over and bringing it close to his father’s eyes.
For an age nothing was said. He was about to place it back in his wallet when a tear leaked down Mikhail’s sunken cheek.
‘Papa?’
The filmy eyes were fixed back on him, beseeching him.
Understanding his father was trying to talk, Nico removed the mask again.
‘Katerina.’ His mother’s name came out like a long, rattly sigh.
His chest tight, unsure if he was doing the right thing, Nico held the picture inches from his father’s face.
A light came into his father’s eyes, and a look of contentment stole across the distorted face. Mikhail drew in another long whistling breath. ‘My Katerina.’
Such was his father’s stillness as he stared at the thirty-five-year-old picture that for the time it took his heart to leap into his mouth and begin to choke him Nico feared he had slipped away.
Only when the filmy eyes blinked and refocused on him did Nico start to breathe again. In his heart he knew it wouldn’t be long. The time elapsing between each rattling, whistling breath was increasing. His father could not hold on much more.
Placing his mother’s picture on the pillow, he leaned over and, for the very first time, pressed his lips to his father’s forehead. His senses were consumed with a scent that was both familiar and yet also wholly unknown—a scent that clutched at him and twisted his guts. ‘I love you, Papa.’
But Mikhail was spent. As he struggled to form words with lips that no longer worked Nico placed a finger to them.
‘It’s all right. I know you love me. You’ve always loved me.’
And as he looked into the diminishing light of his father’s eyes—eyes that contained such love and, strangely, such peace—he knew it to be true. He could feel it in every atom of his being.
Rosa’s words came back to him. ‘It took guts for him to keep you. He must love you very much.’
