(Part I - Smokescreen)
The room is foggy with cigarette smoke, and hazy from whiskey and vodka. They feel odd together – the drinks – make a strange feeling emanate from the pit of your stomach. And the smoke is suddenly the most fascinating thing – just watching it curl up from the ashtray – free, unrestrained, able to escape its origin without the slightest struggle. Up it drifts in little ringlets like an old oriental painting – the Asian artists always made the most beautiful shapes; not exactly realistic, but true to the nature – symbolic. The window is open and the smoke slips out and disappears into the world.
There must be more than this dark, rainy, London weather.
There are glasses on the table. One from the vodka downstairs – two shot glasses from the drawer and a bottle of whiskey that is almost spent. Smoke dissipates, but whiskey lingers, holding the bottle down, almost – holding him down.
The door creaks open and little impish eyes peer in, tiny, soft hands holding the doorknob.
"Uncle, are you drunk?" the angel asks, looking at the glasses. She's too young to understand what it really means other than stupid laughter and stumbling. "No, moya radost, I only had one; I swear to you," he says, pulling the bedcovers farther up his abdomen.
She says, "That's good," and comes in to climb on the bed with him. "It's almost afternoon, Uncle; won't you get up?"
He strokes her hair absentmindedly. "Soon. I was up late."
"Why?"
He reaches over and stubs the cigarette he hadn't even smoked and waves the smoke out the window. "Just getting some work done, yeah?"
"That's good. Mommy likes it when I do work for her – like clean my room. Mommy says I'm a good girl then."
He says, "The best girl."
"Thanks, Uncle."
"You're welcome." He tickles her sides suddenly, eliciting the most angelic laugh. There is nothing so sweet as the laughter of a young child.
"Uncle," she scolds, rolling out of the bed and kneeling on the floor instead, little blue eyes level with his own on the pillow. "I don't like to be tickled."
He grins down at the eyes and wrinkled nose peering up at him. "Then why do you smile?" He wrapped a long arm around her middle and poked at her belly. She runs away to the door and hides behind it, looking back with the same impish gaze. "Tell you what, moya radost; How would you like to earn some of my money?" he asked, pulling out the drawer of his nightstand and reaching inside.
"Maybe."
"Maybe? You want to know what you can do?" She nods. "Today, you be the sweet angel you are for your mother, and promise to say your prayers and look after your sister, too. That's all."
"Really?"
He says, "On my honor."
"I promise. I promise."
He smiles at her soft little voice. "Then you can have this here." He places a ten pound note in her outstretched palms and she looks at it as if she were given the key to Buckingham.
"Thank you, Uncle!" She kisses him on the cheek before bounding out of the room, promising once more to obey.
He runs the backs of his fingers over the spot she had kissed. Love, the children are beautiful for their unconditional love. Praise Mary his sisters had girls. He lights another cigarette just to watch the smoke rise up from the nightstand once more, and grabs the whiskey bottle – ignoring the glass.
[moya radost - my happiness