The Fan Tan Players, page 17
Mamuchka stared at the steam coming off the bowl of Solianka for several moments. ‘‘For years, wherever I was, the first thing I’d think in the morning was, ‘I wonder if it is raining in Tver.’ After a while, of course, I learned to cover up my feelings, pretending to be busy with this and that.’’
‘‘Soup’s getting cold,’’ said Nadia. Mamuchka took a spoon and dipped it into the beef broth.
‘‘Too much pepper? If you don’t like it, I get run down and buy some lotus porridge from the hawkers.’’
‘‘No, it’s very good, Nadrichka.’’
They both looked at a photograph of Papashka, taken when Nadia was three years old. She must have looked at this photograph a hundred times over the years and, like a favourite poem, it was the one she returned to time and time again. In it he is looking away from the camera, a shadow thrown over one side of his face. ‘‘He was very handsome,’’ she said, absorbed.
‘‘Lionel Barrymore,’’ mused Mamuchka. ‘‘Not quite as heavily-built.’’
Nadia pushed her chair back and went round to give her mother a hug. ‘‘I still remember,’’ she said, ‘‘the day you told me you thought Papashka was gone.’’
‘‘Yes. I remember too.’’
Looking back, Nadia saw herself aged seven again. It was an autumn night, a few months after the fire, and Mamuchka was telling her how her father might have died. The gorodvoi had just left Mr. Bogdanov’s cottage. Again there was no news of Papashka’s body. They were making plans to go and live with their cousins in Chelyabinsk.
Mamuchka and she were sitting by the hearth in the estate manager’s cottage. The embers gave the plain, living room a pale, almost delirious glow. She said that Papashka was like the tiny moth in the story ‘Little Caterpillar and the Fire’. She said the little moth had translucent wings.
‘‘What’s translucent?’’ Nadia asked. She was dressing a doll in a canary yellow dress; it had been a gift from the gorodvoi.
‘‘It’s when light can pass through it,’’ said Mamuchka.
‘‘You mean like the way light passes through a ghost?’’
‘‘Can I continue the story?’’ Nadia nodded. She was playing with one of the doll’s shoes. ‘‘Once upon a time a little caterpillar and a tiny moth with translucent wings lived together in a matchbox. They were boiling soup in an eggshell when the tiny moth fell in and burned herself to death. When the little caterpillar saw this she began weeping loudly. The moment the samovar heard the crying he said, ‘What’s the matter, little caterpillar?’
‘Tiny moth has burned to death.’
The samovar began to whistle violently.
Then a passing thundercloud said, ‘What’s happened, samovar?’
The samovar said, ‘Tiny moth has burned to death, little caterpillar is weeping.’
The thundercloud began to rumble and rain started to fall.
Then the river said, ‘Is something the matter, thundercloud?’
The thundercloud said, ‘Tiny moth has burned to death, little caterpillar is weeping, the samovar is whistling.’
‘Oh,’ said the river. And he broke his banks and flooded the land with water, carrying the burned tiny moth out to sea.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked the thundercloud.
‘So that the sea can soothe his burns and purify his soul.’
The thundercloud hovered over the drifting moth and watched – saw its wings floating, spread out on the waves around him, hanging limp. And slowly the restless water caressed the limbs of the tiny moth, spilled rain onto his translucent wings, brought light to the darkness. The soft mouth of the sea was lifting him off the ocean surface and soon the moth came alive once more and flew up towards the moon, circling the earth one last time.’’
Sitting there in the soft lamplight of the kitchen, trying not to imagine how her father was dragged by the ankles into the dovecot and set alight, Nadia retrieved a small object from her dress pocket. She remembered the day he had pressed the little piece of smooth glass into her hand, still warm from his own touch. They’d been fishing by the river and when she opened her hand she saw something the shape of a crown; a piece of cloudy blue glass, the colour of aquamarine syrup. It seemed to her to be a truly intimate gift.
All of a sudden she felt like a little girl bathing at the beach who’d been so absorbed in herself that that she’d forgotten about the currents. It was as if she’d lost sight of the land. Her father’s words, whispered in her ears years before, now rang loudly inside her head: The problem with us Russians is that we spend all our time reminiscing and forget about the present. We must love what we have now before it has vanished forever. The thought froze her, sobered her. She looked fiercely into her mother’s eyes and wondered why the only face she could see was Iain’s.
4
They agreed to wait until dawn. It didn’t seem right to sleep, so Iain stayed by the window and watched for any signs of trouble.
As soon as the light outside turned grainy, they were out in the open, pushing their way forward through the snow. The guide nodded towards the yellow rind of sun and he and Iain settled Ilya Shashkov into the canvas harness of the drag sledge. The guide fastened his hat under his chin, grabbed the poles and began to pull.
They walked for an hour before stopping. The Riedles had packed hurriedly by oillight, without making a sound, stuffing their most prized things into an assortment of bags. Scrambling across the tall snow, they pumped and heaved their legs, steam wisps curling from their mouths.
By eight o’clock they’d made it to the banks of the Amur. Through the clearing they saw the river. Everyone’s breathing grew more and more laboured as they broke into a run. Then the poles snapped. And Shashkov’s arms and legs fell to the ground with a thump.
‘‘We’ll have to carry him,’’ said Iain.
Crossing the frozen river, however, would be more treacherous, explained the guide. ‘‘There is no cover so we will be completely exposed. Anyone could be watching out for us, including Red Guards. Their long-range rifles are accurate over a range of 200 yards.’’
With one arm wrapped round Ilya Shashkov’s frail body, Iain grabbed hold of a handful of coat, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the snow. They were yards now from the water’s frozen edge and Iain’s face was breaking out into wild grimaces of delight – the thrilling taste of escape was intoxicating.
‘‘Wait!’’ The guide hissed.
‘‘What is it?’’ said Iain.
‘‘Do you hear them?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Can you not smell it?’’
‘‘Smell what?’’ But as Iain said this, he knew exactly what the guide was talking about. The stink of horse dung was sharp.
In the distance, dogs were barking; Iain was sure he could now hear other sounds too – the trailing shouts of men, the neighing and whickering of horses, the thrumming of boot-clad feet trampling the ground. ‘‘Are they on to us?’’ he asked.
The guide lifted his rifle.
Muscles quivering, their lips blue, all of them dropped to the ground and hunkered down by the stump of a felled tree. Curled up in their fleeces, they struggled to control the tempo of their breathing.
Nadia’s father began to wheeze and cough up blood. His entire body throbbed and trembled. ‘‘He is very sick,’’ said Riedle. ‘‘We must get him to drink liquid. His pulse is very weak.’’
‘‘Do you see any Red Guards?’’ Iain said.
‘‘Not yet. But I hear them. Keep low and they will pass.’’
‘‘Are you not listening to me?’’ Riedle cried. ‘‘This man is dying.’’
The veins on Shashkov’s temple were throbbing violently through his skin. Iain comforted him and rubbed his back. ‘‘Breathe,’’ he said in English. ‘‘Breathe deeply. And here,’’ he withdrew a skin of water from his satchel. ‘‘Drink this,’’ he said to Ilya. He tilted the skin to his lips. Ilya Shashkov nodded, appeared to understand. He extended a pink tongue, thick and fat like a slice of gammon. Some of the water had frozen, but a few droplets managed to find their way down Ilya’s throat.
‘‘Nadia,’’ he said out of the corner of his crooked mouth as he drank, spilling dribbles down his chin. ‘‘Mnye noozhna pamatryet Nadia.’’ He gestured with his hand that he wanted to look at her photograph again.
‘‘Later. You will see her later,’’ said Iain. ‘‘I promise you. Don’t fall asleep, Ilya. Don’t sleep.’’
Mrs. Riedle put her hand to Shashkov’s forehead. ‘‘He is burning.’’
‘‘He will not survive this,’’ Riedle said. ‘‘We must get him indoors.’’ Extricating himself from his wife’s arms, Riedle got to his feet quickly, like a marionette being pulled up by strings. ‘‘Get down!’’ said the guide. ‘‘They will see you!’’
But Riedle was already half-way up the embankment.
Iain reached out and tried to grab him. He’d scarcely moved when a large cat bounded past them, followed seconds later by an enormous black horse. The horse hurdled them all, including the stump of the felled tree, and galloped away, pounding past them at speed. The rider was sitting in a forward position in the saddle, holding the reins in one hand, whilst clutching a curved saber in the other.
‘‘What the hell was that?’’ said Iain.
‘‘Deerhunters!’’ said the guide.
‘‘Deerhunters?’’
‘‘Did you see that cat? It is a leopard. It belongs to the woodsmen. They use it to hunt sika deer.’’
‘‘So they’re not Red Guards?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘In that case, let’s move! We’ve got to get Shashkov across now!’’
Iain could hear and taste and feel only the wind.
Overhead clouds had turned parts of the sky dark blue, bruising the heavens like a subcutaneous contusion. A thunderclap shook the air and there followed a few seconds of suspenseful silence. They were half way across.
The blizzard had dropped onto them quickly.
Lurching crablike into the spindrift Iain pushed forward. He wrapped his arms around Ilya Shashkov and exhaled deeply. Engulfed in a maelstrom of storm debris, the whiteout enveloped them like a giant hand, tossing them, rolling them.
They were mid-river, traversing fractured young ice. Iain knew that they might fall through at every step. Crack-lines appeared everywhere across the frozen river’s surface.
Nadia’s father was desperately tired, slumping to the ground every few steps. Iain didn’t dare proceed at pace, lest they dropped through into the freezing water. He flexed the fingers of his left fist. Heart pounding, he realized his hands were beginning to die, succumbing to frostbite. They kept advancing, one step, two steps, testing the fissuring, latticed crust for its weight, heading into the unknown. Despite being –15 C, their clothes were wet with perspiration, a wetness which quickly turned into a thin film of frost on their skin whenever they stopped moving. A few minutes later, the guide cried out. ‘‘Follow my voice. Do not get separated!’’
A little after that, Ilya began coughing up a red mucus again. Bones trembling, Iain lifted him onto his shoulders, so that Ilya’s cheek rested against Iain’s ear. Almost there, he kept telling Ilya, almost there.
They crept forward.
Iain asked Shashkov how he was doing. There was no reply.
The guide cried out once again; his shouts vanished instantly in the storm.
Iain’s voice was calm. ‘‘Say something, Ilya.’’ But Shashkov remained silent and the thickness of the silence crushed his ears. He wanted to put him down and shake him. ‘‘Ilya Shashkov!’’ he shouted. The words emerged from the pit of his stomach. ‘‘Don’t you dare die on me!’’
Iain pushed on. Squalling sheets of snow formed in front of his eyes. He was walking into a wall of white so blinding that it hurt his eyes. From somewhere ahead came the sound of an engine. And then he saw the truck and the four men approaching, faces chalked with snow, appearing like ghosts out of a mist.
He felt them take Ilya Shashkov off of him, spreading their blankets over him.
He felt their arms clasp tight round his waist. His mind clouded. He could rest now, he said to himself. He could rest. Seconds later he passed out.
5
‘‘That will be fifteen patacas and thirty avos, Senhor Pinto,’’ Nadia said, placing a varnished box of Culebras cigars into a paper carrier bag.
‘‘We should spread our magical wings and glide away together,’’ he whispered, slipping her a few notes and coins.
With Iain gone so long, a number of men, including the magistrate Senhor Pinto, had started to take an interest in Nadia again.
‘‘Perhaps,’’ continued the short, little man with the skin-crackling smile. ‘‘We can start by taking a stroll by the Praya and enjoy the sunset.’’
‘‘I’m very busy with the shop. With Uncle Yugevny semi-retired, I’m running it now.’’ She glanced at her ledger. As it happened, she’d learned much in the past three months: how to manage inventory and stocktaking, how to gauge seasonal demand, and what it meant to secure credit from a bank. She’d even taught herself to replace the lever at the side of the cash register, which allowed the till to ring again.
Senhor Pinto placed his hand on top of hers. His skin felt cold and lizard-like. ‘‘I have some embroidered handkerchiefs for you. Beautiful little cranes and swans, all satin stitched. Not as beautiful as you though.’’ Nadia felt her insides shrink. ‘‘May I give them to you?’’ he asked, twirling his moustache.
‘‘You are too kind, Senhor Pinto, but I prefer not.’’
‘‘Why? You think I am too old?’’
‘‘Handkerchiefs bring on tears,’’ she said.
‘‘Nonsense, you think me old. But I am young. Look, look at this musculo!’’ He flexed his arm, urging her to squeeze his bicep. ‘‘Every day I do muito exercicio.’’ She pictured the old man huffing and puffing in his bathroom, pulling on his spring-loaded contraption, dressed only in his underpants. The image made her smile broadly.
‘‘You see?’’ he said. ‘‘Pinto can melt even the most frigid heart.’’
Senhor Pinto kissed her hand and bid her farewell just as Mamuchka and Yugevny emerged from the paint-chipped corridor. As always, Mamuchka was dressed in a long-sleeved, black organdie dress. ‘‘Adeus, Olga,’’ he called, making a hasty retreat. ‘‘I’m off to court.’’
‘‘Adeus, Pedro.’’ Mamuchka sat in her usual chair by the teapoy in the corner. ‘‘More offerings of handkerchiefs?’’ she asked.
Nadia nodded, jotting some numbers into her ledger before returning to her Christmas project.
‘‘Why are you wasting your time with window displays?’’ said Yugevny.
‘‘I’m trying to make the shop less stuffy, more modern. A display with a Christmas tableau will bring in more customers.’’
‘‘Well, I think it is stupid. This is a tobacconist not a toy store.’’
‘‘It’s called progress.’’
‘‘Progress? Progress died when they murdered the Tsar.’’ He went off in a huff.
Nadia shook her head. She’d spent most of the morning working on the window display, giving it a bright, nativity theme. There was a marble painted in gold to symbolize the guiding star. A lush carpet of hay forged from Montecristo cigar labels. Papier mache wise men wrapped in silver leaf. She’d even formed the words Feliz Natal and Happy Christmas out of cigar bands, draping the banner over the window frame.
When the shop bell tinkled a few moments later, her mother offered a pebble-voiced welcome. Without looking, Nadia continued with her task, pinning paper poinsettias to a strip of silk bunting.
‘‘Mamuchka,’’ she said, ‘‘can you serve the customer.’’
‘‘But ish you I wish to speak weeth,’’ the voice announced in English. ‘‘I have something to geeve you, Senhora.’’
She turned and saw Fernando Costa standing by the door, his huge bulk almost dwarfing the glass cabinets that housed the porcelain jars and briarwood pipes.
Costa bowed his head. From somewhere deep within his enormous overcoat he fished out a letter.
‘‘The deeplomatic bag arrived this morning with mail from the north.’’
‘‘The north?’’ Her eyes widened with expectation.
‘‘In it wash thees letter addressed to you.’’ He held the envelope high in the air.
She took a step forward, reaching out. ‘‘Give it to me.’’
Costa continued to hold it above his head, out of Nadia’s grasp. ‘‘Not until you tell me something first.’’
‘‘Let me have it!’’
‘‘Where ish Iain? Tell me where he ish heading?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard from him in four months. You’re his friend, surely he must have confided in you.’’
‘‘No. I shuspect he did not tell me because he knew that I would try to dishuade him.’’
‘‘Well, I don’t know where he is.’’
‘‘Are you shoor? He didn’t mention anything about Manchuria?’’
‘‘It will probably say in the letter.’’
‘‘It doesn’t.’’
‘‘You mean you’ve already read it?’’
A desultory grin. ‘‘Of course.’’ He handed it to her. ‘‘The letter came via the British Consulate in Dairen. Sent almost five weeks ago. Did Iain ever tell you where he wash going, what he wash planning?’’
Nadia hesitated. ‘‘Months ago,’’ she said, frowning, ‘‘he mentioned my father.’’
‘‘Your father?’’
‘‘He mentioned going into Russia to rescue my father. But I never believed …’’
‘‘Putanheiro! He’ll be shkinned alive! No wonder there’s been no word.’’
