The Fan Tan Players, page 16
These were neighbours and friends, thought Iain, being hauled off to God-knows-where, yet people did nothing. They were all too scared to move.
The guide whispered to Iain, ‘‘S’khuyali? Punishment for hoarding sacks of corn and other food.’’
Careful not to stare, Iain glanced away. Seconds later he saw the guide approach a man across the village square. As they talked Iain saw the man look over at him. Iain felt uneasy and lowered his eyes. The stranger looked dirty and ill-fed, with boils on his face. The guide spoke in a hurry, his voice hushed. Iain looked on, concerned. The stranger kneaded his forehead and pointed clandestinely towards a hill. The guide squeezed a bank note into his hand.
He said his name was Nikolai. They followed him as he led them away from the church. For a few moments they stood outside a tavern before entering. Once inside, Iain took in the solemn expressions, the menagerie of eyes that could have belonged to homeless dogs. He noted the cups that had blackened with age, the sparseness of the shelves, empty but for a tin of boiled beef and a sad-looking loaf of bread. ‘‘We haff to order some wodka to get them to talk,’’ whispered the guide. Iain studied the grey-faced muzhiks. Pressed into their coats, many appeared tired of breathing.
A bottle of vodka was placed on the bar. Smiles rolled across a few of the faces. Every man in the tavern was given a tumblerful and soon the smiles turned to laughter. The ill-fed Nikolai nodded at a tall man standing across the way. He wore a fur hat with long earflaps. They glanced at each other and then out the window, moving their eyes rapidly. The Red Guards had melted away for now.
Moments later, Iain found himself fighting against the wind again, one eye closed against the cold, trudging through the snow towards a solitary farmhouse on a hill. The tall man was taking them up the slope. Iain trudged through the snow and as he looked up he saw a majestic sight appear from out of the bleak landscape. It was a male elk standing proudly against the snow-whitened birches. He had a set of glorious antlers that were over four feet long and Iain could make out its thick red coat and the buff colourations on its rump. It stood posturing for several seconds before disappearing back into the woods.
‘‘Smeerne! I think we are close now,’’ said the guide.
Filled with anticipation, Iain began thinking about Ilya Shashkov. The old photograph in his pocket showed Ilya with Slavic cheekbones and angular shoulders – would he still look the same, would he have his daughter’s eyes, her nose, her character? Iain glanced ahead, to the top of the rise. He saw a tiny cottage with woodsmoke swirling out of its chimney. Was her father at this very moment watching them, he wondered, through his window, seeing them struggle up the hill? Iain had a mental picture of shaking Ilya’s hand, explaining who he was, seeing the old man’s face burst into smile. The fact that, soon, Ilya and Nadia were to be reunited made Iain’s heart thump against his chest. He held tight to this thought, trying hard to rein in the urge to run to the top of the hill.
The farmhouse stood on a crest of rock that jutted from the edge of the woods. They began their ascent in silence, up a yak track that was laden with animal horns to shepherd trekkers through the winter snowfalls. Rimes of frost formed on their beards and eyebrows.
They entered the farmhouse, letting themselves in without so much as a knock. Iain noticed there were no locks on the door; a person kept no secrets from Soviet Russia. The walls were pea-green and damp, fringed with aspen wood beams; it resembled something out of a Chekhov short story. In the semi-darkness, Iain saw a log-lined hall with Karelian birch chairs, stained wooden floors, a ticking mantel clock, and numerous unvarnished icons on the wall of St. Paraskeva, the Nativity of the Virgin, and the Crucifixion.
Despite the glare from the snow outside, the light within was murky. Iain smelled a log fire burning from somewhere within and followed his nose down the long corridor. He turned into the kitchen, found a square wooden table and a fireplace next to a tall mirror. A tin milk bucket hung by its handle on a metal bar by the fire; potatoes were softening in the boiling water. Sitting at the table, staring at the open fire, wearing a woolen cardigan thinning at the elbows, was an elderly man with a tense line for a mouth. ‘‘Who are you? Why are you in my house?’’ he demanded in Russian.
He was a man of about sixty with scraped-over white hair, sunken cheeks and a soft-spoken, academic manner. A pencil and a blue sugar ration card rested on the table before him. Standing behind him was a pumpkin-faced woman, with a scarf wrapped over her head.
Iain came slowly, respectfully, forward, his hat in his hands.
The guide drew his arms up to his chest and bowed. He apologized for intruding. ‘‘You are Riedle?’’ asked the guide.
‘‘Da,’’ said the white-haired man, his mouth tense once more.
‘‘You live here, alone?’’
Riedle gestured to the woman. ‘‘I have my wife, Nina, with me and …’’ he stopped himself.
‘‘And who?’’ said the guide.
‘‘Nobody else. My son is married now and living in Vladivostok. We are alone.’’
‘‘We are looking for a man called Shashkov. Is he with you?’’ said the guide.
Knees stiff, Riedle got to his feet. The sugar ration card dangled from between his finger and thumb, and slid to the floor. He started shaking his head, shaking it for a long time. Iain heard the guide say the word ‘‘Breetanskeey.’’
‘‘Breetanskeey,’’ Riedle repeated, a perplexed smile of muted expectation forming. ‘‘You haff come to help us?’’ he said speaking in English, directing the question to Iain.
‘‘I have,’’ replied Iain.
‘‘What is it?’’ came a voice from another room, croaked, sounding weak. Iain turned to find a narrow man with spindly shanks for legs appear at the door. He had dull blue eyes, partly clouded with cataracts, and skin as pale as milk; half of his face appeared to have fallen in on itself and his left arm swung without life. Yet despite the obvious signs of stroke, there was something noble about the way he held himself – his back was upright, his head was lifted high and bravely straight. ‘‘Who are these people?’’ he insisted. Shuffling forward on sticks.
‘‘Go and rest, tovarish,’’ said Riedle, still suspicious. ‘‘Nothing here concerns you.’’
‘‘Is this man Shashkov?’’ asked the guide.
‘‘Niet, niet,’’ replied Riedle. But the pause he’d allowed before answering told Iain otherwise. ‘‘He is my brother. He is visiting us from Lensk.’’
Iain came forward and took the frail man by the right elbow, searching his face, the many tones and transparencies of his skin.
‘‘I am a friend of your daughter,’ he said to Shashkov in English. ‘‘Your daughter Nadia Shashkova. Look, I have a photograph. Please you have to listen to me.’’ He sat Ilya down and kneeled in front of him. ‘‘We don’t have much time.’’
Iain started drawing things out of his satchel – postcards of Macao, a photograph of Nadia, train tickets. Ilya Shashkov looked at Iain. He was silent. Riedle, too, had gone quiet. The mantel clock ticked in the hallway.
Icy surprise had greeted Iain’s words. They were sitting at a table in the sitting room. The tall man with the fur earflaps had departed and the potatoes in the pot had cooled and remained uneaten.
Iain examined their scared eyes in turn. Mrs. Riedle laid a hand on Shashkov’s forehead to feel his temperature. ‘‘I am here to help you, all of you,’’ he repeated.
He’d rehearsed his lines before starting to speak. It was never going to be easy persuading them to follow him, to trust him, but Iain did what he could. ‘‘Your house in Russia,’’ Iain said, ‘‘just outside of Tver. Nadia told me all about it. She told me about the fire, about Mr. Bogdanov, the estate manager, about the lucky glass charm you gave her.’’ He showed them a recent photograph of Nadia. Ilya’s hands hesitated as they reached forward. Iain saw the blood throbbing at his temples – he could smell his warmth, hear his breathing. The old man’s eyes grew tender; he appeared to understand. ‘‘She mentioned the toboggan run you made from ice that led down to the pond.’’
‘‘This cannot be,’’ said Nadia’s father in Russian, but the tremor in his voice belied his words. His lips parted. Words fell out of his mouth, skidding like perplexed sighs. His eyes blinked. His confusion was clear.
Iain produced more images from his satchel, handing Ilya the one of Nadia as a little girl standing with her father by a fountain.
Ilya gazed at it for long moments. ‘‘This was taken in our garden in Vadra!’’ he said. There was glee in his chest now. He laughed out loud before collapsing in a fit of coughing.
‘‘You must come with me,’’ said Iain.
Riedle shook his head vigorously. His voice was like dry wheat. ‘‘Ilya will never surwife the trip.’’
‘‘But he must come. What is there for him here?’’
Lowering his voice, Riedle said. ‘‘He has not seen his family for twenty years. Nina and I are his family now. Can you not see how balnoy he is, how sick? He can not go.’’
‘‘Isn’t that his decision to make?’’
‘‘I am his vrach, his doctor. I am also his friend.’’
Iain looked back over his shoulder at the guide who was standing at the window. ‘‘Smeerne. We haff to hurry,’’ said the guide. ‘‘The weather is getting bad and I fear the Red Guards will find out about us. If you don’t hurry nam khana.’’
‘‘I’m doing my best,’’ shot Iain.
‘‘What is to become of us?’’ asked Riedle.
‘‘We can take you across too,’’ said Iain. ‘‘I can get you to Harbin.’’
‘‘Byazrasoodnye! We haff considered escaping many times before, but it cannot be done,’’ said Riedle. ‘‘If they catch us they will zhoot us.’’
Ian would not be deflected.
‘‘What’s left for you here? There’s talk of collectivization. They’re starving all of you slowly. Bread, flour, sugar, salt – all these aren’t available in the free market.’’
‘‘Things will improve.’’
‘‘No, they won’t.’’
’’It is true,’’ said Nina Riedle in Russian. ‘‘Things are getting worse here. The ration cards are hopeless. People have turned to the black market instead even though prices are hugely inflated. Women in the towns hide little sacks of flour or sugar under their skirts for bartering.’’
‘‘Please be quiet, Nina!’’ cried Riedle.
She ignored her husband. ‘‘And now bread is baked with cornmeal or ground beans. It is often inedible. Some of the bread is mingled with straw.’’
Iain looked at Nadia’s father and thrust the photographs back into his hands. ‘‘Your daughter is waiting for you,’’ he said. His face was pink with pleading.
Shashkov’s tears made tracks down his cheeks.
‘‘But what will happen to us?’’ said Riedle. ‘‘Byazrasoodnye! Nina and I will be stateless. We haff no money …’’
‘‘Last year the Lutheran Mission in Harbin took care of almost a hundred Mennonites who had crossed over from Russia.’’
’’We are not Mennonites.’’
‘‘You’ll be offered the same opportunities, the same help. There are numerous charities sponsored by American Mennonites that will help you. I have already made enquiries. President Hoover’s administration will approve your emigration to America. You’ll be offered a fresh start in the Mennonite Brethren settlement in Fresno, California. Think of all that American milk and beef and ice-cream.’’
‘‘A fresh start. D’ermo! At our age? By the Spirit of Lenin …’’
‘‘They will take good care of you. Trust me, please.’’ Iain’s voice floated over the room.
‘‘Smeerne! I see horses,’’ said the guide. ‘‘I see horses!’’
‘‘We need a decision from you,’’ said Iain. ‘‘The longer we stay the more dangerous it gets.’’ The mantel clock in the hall struck a single lonely toll.
‘‘The horsemen are riding up the hill!’’ the guide called out. ‘‘I can see Red Guards! I can see their armbands! I think they know strangers are in the weelage.’’
‘‘We must hide you!’’ said Reidle. He shepherded Iain and the guide into the kitchen. There was a low wall made up of loose logs for the fire. ‘‘Here!’’ he said, ‘‘Crouch behind the logs.’’ Riedle threw saddle blankets over them and then some broken tinder on top. ‘‘D’ermo! Do not move or make a sound!’’
The heat from the open fire reddened their cheeks. They waited, squashed against each other like peppers in a heated pan. A distant hush of quiet voices sounded through the house. Riedle stood in the corridor, looking back behind him into the kitchen over and over again.
The guide suddenly gazed at Iain. ‘‘What about the rifles?’’ he hissed. ‘‘I haff to get them.’’
‘‘Where did you leave them?’’
‘‘Zaluba! In the sitting room, with our zhoulder bags behind the door.’’ He covered his head with his hands. Then came fresh sounds – the rumble of hooves and shouts – followed by a rush of wind and the thud of footsteps down the corridor.
Feeling the throb of his heart against his chest, Iain’s breath pulled tight.
Through a crack in the logs, Iain could see the front part of the kitchen; he blinked and stretched his neck. He watched something dark move in front of them. A man’s hobnail boots, black and wet with snow, crossed the room, stopping at the larder. A hand reached inside and took out some bread and onions. Not far away, standing by the door, was another man, ice dripping from his long overcoat.
‘‘Durak neshtiasny! Where are they?’’ cried one of the Guards.
‘‘Two men were here, saying they were from the North, from Tugur. They were demanding food and shelter. Comrade, I think they were counterrevolutionaries.’’ said Riedle. ‘‘I gave them some beets because I feared they might harm us. They were carrying rifles. Comrade, do you think these are the Whites or Solidarists looking to overthrow our blessed Soviet government?’’
‘‘Blin! Did you see which way they went, starik?’’
‘‘They followed the fenceline away from the village, heading against the sun.’’
Iain could hear Mrs. Riedle yelling from the sitting room. She was shouting at the men, her voice stern. The men in the kitchen turned to her and handed back the onions they’d shoved into their pockets.
‘‘We are searching every house from Elychoko to Blagoveshchensk.’’ said the Red Guard, scowling towards the door. ‘‘If you see the svoloch again, go down the hill to the church and ring the bell. Vrubatsa?’’
Riedle’s face was expressionless. The hobnailed boots banged against the floor. Iain heard the front door bang and the horses quickening their pace as they rode away. Iain turned and stared at the guide. The mantel clock ticked in their ears once more.
3
The mournful cries of the lotus porridge vendor radiated from the cobbled streets below, ‘Leen sum bak tong juk,’ he sang, his voice forlorn, like a sailor who’d lost his rum bottle in the fog.
Nadia was in the kitchen adding up all the signatures that Izabel had received. ‘‘With all this support the government will have to go ahead and build a new orphanage. Two hundred and sixty eight names so far. Not bad,’’ she announced. ‘‘We’ll present it to Government House on Monday.’’
‘‘Izabel is going to get into trouble over this. You mark my words.’’
‘‘I don’t see why.’’
‘‘Nobody likes having their bottom spanked and that’s exactly what Izabel is doing to this fellow Quieroz. You too. I heard some gossip from Senhora de Souza that they may look to charge Izabel with being a public nuisance. You ought to be careful.’’
‘‘Nonsense, Mamuchka. We’re doing what’s right. It’s our duty to see this through.’’
But Mamuchka had stopped listening. Her gaze had dropped to the bundle of old photographs which she held in her hands. ‘‘These are all I have left of your father,’’ she said. The images had faded to the colour of an earthy yellow. ‘‘Cousin Myshkin gave them to me. All our photographs perished in the fire.’’
‘‘Why have you taken them out?’’
‘‘Because of Iain. Because you said he’s gone to bring Papashka home.’’
Nadia tucked her list of signatures into a folder and approached the stove. ‘‘Let’s not get our hopes up.’’
‘‘Please come and look at the photographs.’’
‘‘Take a sip of soup first,’’ said Nadia. She removed a ladle from a clay pot and placed a bowl of beef broth in front of her mother. ‘‘Look what I’ve made. Solianka, the same kind I used to prepare for you when I was about fifteen. Do you remember?’’
‘‘I remember.’’ There was a moment’s hesitation and then Mamuchka asked, ‘‘You used to add those fat Chinese mushrooms, those doong goo. They were your trademark.’’ Mamuchka sighed. ‘‘Those first few years were unbearable,’’ she said. Her eyes had fixed at a point on the far wall. ‘‘I was lonely and frightened. You were so young. We were like shipwrecked sisters.’’ She sighed. ‘‘Zhizn’ prozhit’ – ne pole peretyi – life was never meant to be easy.’’
They were seated at the long oak table in the kitchen, the plates and saucers cleared away. The jade monkey pendant and its luminous red box lay between them on the polished wood. It was a talisman, a precious thing, something to banish the fear that Iain might not return.
Mamuchka saw her looking at the pendant. ‘‘Have you forgiven Iain?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ she said. ‘‘I think I have.’’ Nadia reached across and locked her fingers in Mamuchka’s and squeezed.
On the wall behind Mamuchka she saw the little horizontal lines of ink, and recalled all the times she had stood there in her early teens, shoes off, Uncle Yugevny, measuring her growing height, placing a ruler flat on her head and marking it off with a scribble, followed by the date. The marks were still there, faded now.
She remembered their first days in Macao. Her mother transferring her irritation from one thing then to another – she disliked the food, the smells, the foreignness of everything, the tangle of streets. ‘‘Where are all the trees, the open fields,’’ she’d say. For Mamuchka, Macao was a place to mourn her memories. For Nadia it was a place to bury them.
