MORNING SERIAL

I LOOKED around the room. There was a treasure trove of objects for admirers of Francis Benthem, but little of intrinsic value. I thought of Clare back home.

“He worked for you?” I said. “Nothing quite as vulgar as that.” Prostakov held up his hands in front of a cheeky half-smile. He had pushed his shades up onto his velvety cranium. “We had a mutual arrangement.”

I did not want to press it, but at the same time something did not feel right. I walked around the room, examining casually the bric-a-brac of Francis’s working space.

“And all this is for me?”

“It is not much perhaps, but it is what he wanted for you.” “You were close?”

“We became friends,” said Prostakov.

“What exactly did he do for you? Can you tell me that?”

“Tell you? Why could I not tell you?”

He was speaking lightly, although I could see in him a figure who had delivered countless threats in his life; it was just under the surface, perhaps even his natural pose.

“Illie…” It was the first time I had attempted to obey his invitation to address him so familiarly, and it made no ruffle in him, so I went on. “This is an uncommon set-up. You understand?”

He sucked his teeth, crossed his arms, and leaned back on the doorframe. “You want to know what he did? What he did for all this?”

I continued to go through the things in the room cursorily.

“It has been many years since I heard anything about Francis,” I said. “And then I am notified of his death and funeral and I get here and I am summoned by a man, a man with the appearance of a powerful man, and he tells me that Francis has spent all these years painting for him, and now he is dead and I can have all these things. That brings up more questions than answers.”

Prostakov rubbed his rough hands across his neck and looked me up and down. I could not tell if he was angry or not.

The Golden Orphans by Gary Raymond is published by Parthian www.parthianbooks.com

CONTINUES TOMORROW