Pavel’s determination to leave God out of his passing extends to the event itself: no hymns, no prayers, not a single mention of the Almighty. Instead, as I hope he would have wished, I’ve scored this brief little celebration for a Schubert impromptu, played on the recording by Paul Lewis, and the largo from Pavel’s favourite Dvořák string quartet. I say a few words about what an inspiration he was, and read a poem, Musée des Beaux Arts, which Pavel always regarded as the best thing Auden ever wrote. The poem reminds us how the world goes on regardless, despite our hunt for significance and meaning, and we bow our heads as the curtain closes on Pavel’s coffin.
Afterwards, H insists on treating us to lunch at a floating café on the Exe, upriver from Exmouth. We eat mussels and fresh bread and drink far too much Chablis. Twice, H catches me gazing across the water at the mooring where Amen used to be. Thanks to DS Williams, I know the boat has been towed away for further investigation, but the drunker I get, the greater the temptation to indulge in a memory or two.
‘You’re seeing things,’ H grunts. And he’s right.
The following week, I return to the crematorium and collect Pavel’s ashes. The one place that meant more to him than anywhere else on earth was Prague, and one day, I tell myself, I will take a flight, and stand on the Charles Bridge, and scatter his ashes over the river below. In the meantime, while I wrestle with the complications of his estate, they will occupy one corner of my wardrobe at home in Holland Park.
In June, H and I have a brief conversation on the phone about the penthouse apartment. We agree that it’s served its purpose and neither of us want to hang on to it. I audition a selection of estate agents and later that month, when Exmouth is at its best, it goes on the market for £850,000. H has priced it for a quick sale because he needs to fund his fight with his neighbour about the housing development and we get an offer within days.
I make one final visit to Exmouth before the new owners move in. All the equipment that kept Pavel alive has already gone, donated to the Spinal Unit outside Salisbury, and I wander from room to room saying a private goodbye to an apartment which – thanks to H’s largesse – served us so well.
The best of the place was undoubtedly the view, and I linger on Pavel’s balcony, watching a stately procession of yachts leaving the estuary for some race or other. Malo’s love affair with kitesurfing appears to have cooled for the time being and he’s recently put his rig on eBay, but I tell myself that one day – when the memories are less raw – I’ll come back here. Pavel, bless him, once fell in love with the place. And, much, much older, so have I.
The hottest summer I can remember finally expires, and in London we all start breathing again. It’s early autumn now, and I’m at home in my apartment in Holland Park when the buzzer goes. The video entry screen is in the hall. I’m looking at a tall man, probably young. He’s wearing a nice coat, maybe cashmere, and he’s obviously aware of the camera because he’s looking up at the lens. Something about his face is familiar but at first glance I can’t quite place it.
‘Ms Andressen?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Stukeley. Ivan Stukeley. I think you might have known my dad.’
I’m staring at the face on the screen. Ivan Stukeley has an Australian accent but there’s no mistaking the smile. Did Pavel really have a son? And if so, why didn’t he tell me?
‘Come in.’ I press the entry release. ‘Fourth floor. The door will be open.’
By the time he steps out of the lift, I’ve managed to compose myself. I invite him in, put his lovely coat on a hanger, make coffee. Like most Australians I’ve ever met, he doesn’t waste time in small talk. He read news of his father’s passing in a back issue of The Times, sent from the UK by a friend. He teaches World Literature at the University of Western Australia, in Perth, and he’s here in London for an academic conference.
‘How did you get my name? My address?’
‘I asked around. I knew nothing about my dad until I read the obituaries. Dad’s agent mentioned your name. I’m surprised she hasn’t been in touch.’
‘So am I.’
‘You mind me being here?’
‘Not at all. I’m delighted. Your dad was beyond special. I know I’ll never meet anyone like him again.’
We spend the rest of the day talking. Pavel, it appears, was married to an Aussie woman he met in Edinburgh. She was a student at the university. After graduation, he followed her back to Perth, where they married. Ivan’s mother was already heavily pregnant, and she gave birth two months later.
‘Any brothers? Sisters?’
‘None. I can’t remember anything about Dad. It was like I never laid eyes on him. He’d gone, fled, before I even got to my first birthday. Maybe it was my fault. Mum had remarried by the time I got to school, and my stepdad brought me up. That was fine. I was very lucky.’
I nod. Moonie, I think, losing his dad. Deko’s father killing himself under a train. And now this stranger, all that’s left of Pavel, turning up on my doorstep, eager to know who brought him into the world.
I help as best I can. I tell him about our time together, about Pavel’s blindness, and about the accident that broke his neck and put him in a wheelchair.
‘And you nursed him through all that?’
‘The paralysis, yes.’
‘That makes him very lucky.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘It makes me very lucky.’
The conversation drifts to money. Pavel, as it turns out, was a rich man. There was no mortgage left on his Chiswick house, and his film and TV work are still producing a flood of royalties.
‘We’re talking at least two million,’ I say, ‘with more to come. If you’re sole next-of-kin, you might like to have a think about that.’
‘But who knows?’ He’s smiling. ‘Who knows how many other wives he might have had?’
He’s right, of course, and if I ever needed proof that this delightful academic was carrying Pavel’s genes, then here it is. Because the truth is that none of us could really separate Pavel from his more baroque fantasies, and I – for one – had given up trying.
‘He was a mystery,’ I murmur. ‘He re-wrote the script day by day, and I loved him for it.’
Ivan seems to understand that, and when I tell him that A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich was always one of Pavel’s favorite reads, he seems more than pleased. Just now, he says, he’s teaching a module in Twentieth Century Russian Literature, and Solzhenitsyn lies at the heart of the syllabus.
‘Strange,’ he says, following me into the kitchen.
I pour large gin and tonics for both of us. A cartoon is Blu-tacked to my fridge and has caught his attention. I tore it out of the Guardian the day they discovered the black hole in space, and it’s been with me ever since, a reminder of the times we live in.
Two angels are fishing on the edge of the cosmic hole, their feet dangling over the inky darkness below. It’s obviously been a slow day.
‘Nothing?’ asks one angel.
‘Nothing,’ the other confirms, ‘but that’s the whole point.’
Ivan, like his father would, gets it at once.
‘Very funny.’ He’s laughing. ‘But insane.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Totally mad.’
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