To pull herself together she says she’ll wait for him in the kitchen.
‘I’ve been preparing borsch,’ she says realising that food may not be on his mind at this point. It anchors her all the same – the thought of serving food for her son who’s come home.
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He relaxes more now and it lets the last shuffles of shit to exit him. It’s a genuine relief. For years now he’s had a problem with shit – its presence in his body. He always feels his cleanest after he’s had a ripe one. It’s a defect of the human body to carry this stuff at all. What kind of crushing and moulding does my stomach do to turn food into this? To make sense of it he usually inspects and even today is no different. Not so different from the last time I had a kebab. Funny how some food changes so much and others seem immune to the hammering the intestines deliver. All he hopes is that he dies without shit inside him – the thought of his cadaver clasping a rotting load of half-turned food revolts him.
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In the kitchen a plate of soup is waiting for him in a wide bowl. One place is set and his mother obviously just wants to watch. He knows he has to oblige her and resigns himself that his innards won’t be clean for at least another twelve hours after all. With that in mind he starts dining heartily – may as well put on a show for the old dear. It’s been a while after all.
‘It’s been so long Pyotr. I don’t want to complain at you, but where have you been?’
‘There’s nothing to tell mum. I’ve just been busy with stuff.’
‘I know Pyotr. You are a busy man, and it’s so good to see you, with a healthy appetite too.’
He’s no desire to tell her it’s all an act for her. The fact that he’s stuffing this mush into his face so fast that he can’t taste it wouldn’t sound good.
‘Now you’re here you could come to church with me tomorrow.’ Making her sentence sound like a question.
‘I’m not religious mum, you know that – I really shouldn’t.’
‘Well, it’s alright. Only good people are religious, the best ones don’t need to be.’ She replies patting his hand for her own benefit, to check he is real, not her imagination gone mad.
‘I’m not even the best mother.’
He feels a little irritated at her for making him admit it, so he continues:
‘Even though I feel like I am the best sometimes. When I look at all the buildings, all stacked in their rows, something in me finds it hard to believe I didn’t build them. That my basic being alive must have commanded their existence.’
‘I know son’ – she pats him again, as before, to let him know he is right – although she had no idea what he means.
‘It’s more than that mother. I feel like I want to kill people sometimes. Not just anybody. Not somebody like you - a sweet, simple person who society wouldn’t miss. I’d like to pluck a writer or an artist, or someone beautiful and famous – just to see if there was a hole behind them. It’s not the killing I want – it’s to see what’s behind it all.’
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Anyway, she stopped listening. He’s sitting in the kitchen behind a still-warm empty bowl of her soup. Everything in there now looks like two people share it again.
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