"No, Vasily,” she whispered.
“Yes, Anna. Lie still. You must stay here. Do you hear me?” He was on his knees, tipped sideways to peer into the low gap between the floor and the seat. The lines of his face had changed, sharper now and suddenly older than his fourteen years. “Whatever happens, Anna, don’t come out. Stay here.” He took her hand, kissed a fingertip, and was gone.
But she had no intention of being packed away like a china doll and immediately started to back out from under the chaise longue. She scurried across the floor on her hands and knees, feet catching in her hem, to the window, where she placed her hands flat on the icy pane, cheek pressed beside them. Why was there a pool of cranberry juice in the snow? As though someone’s cold fingers had dropped a jar of it. But next to the pool lay Grigori Dyuzheyev. He looked asleep.
TWENTY-EIGHT
RAFIK.”
Sofia leaned closer. The gypsy’s answering murmur was faint. His slight figure lay unmoving under the bedcover, a fragile disturbance of the gaily colored patchwork. At times his eyes seemed to glaze over as they stared up at the ceiling with its moons and planets and its all-seeing eye. The black of his pupils had changed to dull ash gray.
“Rafik.”
Gently she took his hand in hers. She couldn’t understand exactly what had happened to make him so ill, and Zenia was no help. When Sofia asked what the problem was, the gypsy girl averted her eyes, looking suddenly younger, and said, “You must ask Rafik.” But he was in no state to ask anything. Though his hand was small and narrow-boned in hers, it felt unexpectedly heavy and possessed a heat that seemed to come from deeper than just skin and muscle. She ran a finger over its knotted veins, willing them to keep flowing.
“Rafik, my friend, you don’t look so good. Can I give you more . . . ?” She waved a hand at the murky bottle beside the bed, hesitating to call it medicine.
Zenia had left the strange-smelling liquid for him before going to work for the day, with strict instructions for a mouthful to be taken every few hours, more if his head pain worsened. But Rafik had sent Sofia to the Dagorsk apteka specifically to fetch something stronger. The pain must be bad. Sofia feared for him as she spooned the white powder onto his tongue, but when he closed his eyes, his lips continued to move silently, as though his dreams were too powerful to ignore.
She leaned so close her hair brushed his. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”
A heavy knock on the front door made her jump, and when she opened it she was surprised to find the broad figure of the blacksmith on the threshold.
“May I come in, Comrade Morozova?” he said without preamble. “I want to speak with you.”
She suddenly remembered the ax, the one she’d stolen. Was that what this was about? She watched his eyes. That was where she knew to spot danger. But no, the blacksmith’s eyes were solemn, no threatening ripple disturbing their dark surface. She stepped back and allowed the big man to enter.
His collarless shirt was undone at the neck, revealing thick corded muscles, and he was still clad in his leather apron that smelled of grease, but his manner was polite and his voice soft. It was as if he knew his shaven head and massive size were intimidating enough without needing to add to it. The carefully trimmed spade of a beard revealed a touch of vanity that sat oddly on him. She wondered if there was some woman in his life he was aiming to please.
“So, Comrade Pokrovsky,” Sofia said, “what can I do for you?”
His brown eyes narrowed as they studied her. “I’ve come with an offer for you.”
“An offer? What kind of offer?”
“A job.”
“You’re offering me a job?”
“Yes. Zenia told me you were looking for one. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m here to offer you one.”
“I’m not at my best with a hammer and bellows,” she said with a smile.
He frowned, then opened his mouth wide and roared with laughter. The sound almost took her head off. “Not in the forge. In the school.”
Sofia folded her arms and said nothing. This didn’t feel right.
“Well?” the blacksmith urged.
“Why you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why have you come to me with the offer? Instead of the schoolteacher herself?”
“Oh, she’s busy with the children—she lost her other assistant. Anyway, she . . .” He paused, his heavy beetle brows pulled together, and Sofia wasn’t certain whether the look he gave her was one of annoyance or embarrassment. Either way, she wasn’t about to take a chance.
“Go on,” she said softly.
He drew a deep breath, filling his barrel chest until it stretched the seams of his shirt. “Anyway,” he continued, “she wants my opinion.”
Sofia blinked. “Of me, you mean?”
He nodded, studying her closely.
“But I spoke to her only last night at the school,” she said.
“I know.”
A small silence grew between them. Sofia was the one to break it.
“Elizaveta Lishnikova must have considerable respect for your judgment.”
He shrugged. “She has made mistakes in the past. She’s not good with . . . us peasants.” He showed his big teeth in a smile. “Like the last teacher she employed. He’s gone now.”
“So what will you report back to her?”
He chewed ponderously on his beard, the way a bull chews on the cud. “That you have a smile that would keep the boys in order. A soft voice that would comfort the little ones. That your eyes are sharp and trust no one, but you’re the kind of person to have at one’s back in time of trouble. Unless,” his eyes narrowed to slits, “unless you’re coming with a knife, that is.”
Another silence landed between them.
“Comrade Pokrovsky,” Sofia said after a moment, unfolding her arms, “would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”
THEY didn’t talk much. Just sat at the table holding their cups and eyeing each other with interest. Sofia could feel the suspicion in the room as solid as a third person, but neither seemed to mind it much. They were used to living with it, breathing its fumes, and both were careful not to mention what had gone on in the village the previous night. She looked at his hands, scarred and lined, the forge imprinted in the shape of every massive nail and knuckle.
“Have you always been the blacksmith in Tivil?”
“All my life. And my father before me.”
“The village must have changed a lot.”
“It has.”
He clamped his lips shut and said no more, but his dark eyes were not so cautious and a deep anger sparked in them. She looked away to give him a moment to hide it.
“So you’ve known Rafik for many years?” she said.
“I have. He’s the best man you could wish for when handling a horse.”
“And when handling a mind?”
He leaned forward, fists on the table, making it creak. “Seen him do it, have you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s frightening, isn’t it?”
“What is it he does?”
The smith’s hand stroked the smooth skin of his head, unconsciously protecting the contents of his skull.
“It’s gypsy enchantment,” he growled.
“What kind of gypsy enchantment?”
“Chyort! How would I know, girl? An ancient power of some kind, I suppose.” Sofia watched him spread his arms out wide, taking in the whole baffling breadth of the universe. “It might be,” he added in a lower voice, “drawn from the black arts, for all I know.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t think so.”
He reached across the table as if to seize her by the throat, but instead he plucked out a thread of her hair and wound it around his thick finger. “Rafik can twist your mind as easily as I twist your hair. If you’re his niece, as he claims you are, you must know all about gypsy skills, anyway.”
Sofia�
��s heart thumped. She wasn’t usually so clumsy, damn it. This blacksmith may have lived in a Ural village all his life but he was no fool, and he kept laying snares for her to run into, just as he would for the animals on the forest trails.
“My aunt married Rafik’s brother, but I possess no gypsy blood.” That was the story she and Rafik had concocted and she was determined to stick with it. “So I was taught nothing of their traditions or ways.”
He unwound the blond strand on his finger and dropped it into the palm of her hand. “That explains it then.” And he laughed, a boisterous sound, though she couldn’t for the life of her see the joke.
“Stop teasing the girl, Pokrovsky.”
“Rafik!” Sofia leaped to her feet.
The gypsy was standing in the doorway. His slight frame looked unsteady, leaning heavily on the doorpost of his room. How long he’d been there, she wasn’t sure, but she sensed it was no more than a second or two. His shirt, which should have been a pale gray, was dark with sweat and hung loose over his trousers.
“Rafik, you should be in bed.”
“No.” He accepted the arm she offered him and let her lead him to the maroon armchair. “We are under a cloud, black as”—Rafik tipped the corner of his mouth in a slender smile—“as Pokrovsky’s fingernails over there. It hangs above us and—” He stopped. Listened to something. Sofia didn’t know if it was to something inside or outside his head.
“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.
“Not the village in danger again?” Pokrovsky moaned.
“No.” Rafik turned his black eyes on Sofia. “No, it’s you, Sofia.” He pulled himself to his feet and skirted a hand over her head without actually touching her. “It’s cold,” he murmured. With jerky movements he wiped a large red handkerchief across his face. “Now,” he said calmly, “we will take you to the kolkhoz office to—”
A rap at the door interrupted him. He nodded, as though it was what he’d been expecting. Sofia saw a flicker of something—was it pain or was it knowledge of what was to come?—tighten his lips before he walked to the door and opened it. A rush of bright sunlight tumbled in.
“Good day to you, Comrade Fomenko.”
The kolkhoz chairman stood more than a head taller than the gypsy, and for one fleeting moment Sofia thought he was going to brush Rafik aside, there was such a determination in the way he stared straight at her, ignoring the two men. It made her uneasy.
“Comrade Morozova,” he said brusquely, “you haven’t registered yet as a resident of Tivil, I am told.”
“I was just about to take her down to the office to do so,” Rafik responded quickly.
“Good. We need her in the fields. You’ll be assigned to a brigade, Comrade Morozova.”
Sofia’s tongue dried in her mouth. Just the mention of the word brigade brought back images of the labor camp and sent a cold shiver through her. She made no comment, just returned his stare. Did this man think of nothing but his fields and his quotas? But his observant gray eyes were giving nothing away. They turned and studied Rafik for a long moment, and then with a brisk nod he was gone. Sofia experienced a distinct reduction of the energy inside the izba, as though something had been sucked out of the room.
“Pokrovsky,” she said thoughtfully, “tell your teacher that if she wants an answer, she must come and ask me herself.”
I lied to Mikhail.”
“It was for his own good,” Rafik pointed out.
“He knows I lied to him.”
“It was to protect him. The less he remembers about the sacks, the safer he is.”
“I know. But—”
“Leave it, Sofia.” There was an edge to his voice.
“Sometimes, Rafik, you scare me.”
“Good. Because you scare me, my dear. Like you scared Fomenko. ”
“Did I?”
“That’s why he came himself to check up on you. It’s clear he’s not sure about you. Our chairman likes to be in control, so yes, you worry him.”
Sofia laughed softly and felt his answering smile strengthen the bond that had forged between them.
“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” she asked.
They were making their way down the dusty street to the kolkhoz office. It was by far the most conspicuous izba in the village, draped with placards and colorful posters listing the latest production figures and urging greater commitment from kolkhozniki. To emphasize the point, painted in large letters above the door was the statement FIRST FIVE YEAR PLAN IN FOUR. No one was going to accuse Stalin of not driving his people hard. Gray clouds were creeping up on the horizon, hovering above the ridge as if waiting for a chance to slip down into the valley, and there was no breath of wind to scour Tivil clean. The smell of burned wood and ash still hung between the houses like a physical presence.
Rafik had changed into his bright yellow shirt and was walking carefully, one hand lightly on Sofia’s arm for support. She knew the effort was too much too soon, but she hadn’t argued against it. Never again would she put Mikhail’s life in danger the way she had today in Dagorsk because of her lack of dokumenti. Just the thought of how close it came, of the bullet pointed at his head, sent acid surging into her mouth.
As they passed the blacksmith’s forge, Pokrovsky raised an oily hand, but Sofia only had eyes for Mikhail’s son, Pyotr, who was standing there with him. He was a small figure beside the great bulk of the blacksmith, a pair of tongs in his young fist. The boy wiped a hand on his heavy burlap apron and then across his mouth, leaving a smear of grease. Sofia smiled at him but he didn’t respond.
Rafik stumbled.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Sofia told him. “You should be resting.”
“Don’t fuss. If you don’t register as a member of this kolkhoz today, people will start asking questions.” His black eyes sparked at her. “You don’t want that, do you?”
“No, I don’t want that. But neither do I want to see you ill.”
A drawn-out growl rattled inside his chest. “And I don’t want to see you dead.”
THE man behind the desk stood no chance. He was in his forties and was proud of his position of authority in the kolkhoz, his mouth faintly smug. His steel-rimmed spectacles reflected the bright lamp that shone on his desk despite the sunshine outdoors, and his hand kept fiddling with the cord of the telephone, the only one in the village. A telephone was a status symbol that he did not care to be parted from, even for a moment.
“Identity papers, pozhalusta, please, Comrade Morozova,” he asked politely. He stroked his mustache, held out his hand, and waited expectantly.
Sofia hated the office from the second she stepped inside it. Small, crowded, crammed with forms. Walls covered in lists. Just the stench of officialdom turned her stomach. She’d seen how it could warp a man’s mind till people became numbers, and sheets of paper became gods that demanded blood sacrifice.
“Dokumenti?” the kolkhoz secretary asked again, more forcibly this time.
Sofia did exactly as Rafik had instructed her. She took a folded blank sheet of paper from her skirt pocket and placed it on the desk. The man frowned, clearly confused. He picked it up, unfolded it, and spread its blank face in front of him.
“What is this, comrade? A joke?”
Rafik rapped his knuckles sharply on the metal desk, making both Sofia and the man jump.
“No joke,” Rafik said.
Words in a language Sofia did not recognize started to flow from the gypsy’s mouth, an unbroken stream of them that seemed to wash through the room in waves, soft, rounded sounds that made the air hum and vibrate in her ears. A resonance echoed in her mind. She fought against it, but at the same time her eyes registered that the man at the desk bore a blank expression, as though the waves had swept his mind as empty as a beach at low tide. Sofia swore she could even taste the salt of sea spray in her mouth, and she wondered if her own face looked as blank.
“No joke,” Rafik reiterated clearly.
He
walked around the desk, his bright yellow shirt as hypnotic as the sun, till he was standing beside the man, and he placed one hand heavily on his shoulder. The other slapped down with a loud crack on the sheet of paper.
“Identity papers,” he purred into the man’s ear.
Sofia saw the moment when understanding flooded the man’s eyes. It was as sudden and savage as a punch in the stomach. He blinked, ground his teeth audibly, and gave a brisk nod of his head.
“Of course,” he muttered in a voice that had grown thick and unwieldy.
While Rafik returned to stand beside Sofia, the man rifled through drawers, yanked out forms, flourished the Red Arrow kolkhoz official stamp. But she barely noticed. All she was aware of was the tang of salt on her tongue and Rafik’s arm in the yellow sleeve firm against her own. How long it was before they stepped out into the street again, Sofia wasn’t certain, but by the time they did so, the clouds had slunk into the valley and Tivil had lost its summer sheen. In her pocket was an official residence permit.
“Rafik,” she said quietly, “what is it you do?”
“I wrap skeins of silk around people’s thoughts.”
“Is it a kind of hypnotism?”
He smiled at her. “Call it what you will. It kills me slowly, a piece at a time.”
He could barely breathe.
“Oh, Rafik.”
With an arm around his waist and taking most of his weight on herself, she walked him around to the patch of scrubland at the back of the office away from watchful eyes. With great care she eased him to the ground. He sat there trembling, knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes focused on the ridge of trees beyond the river. Without warning he was violently sick. Sofia wiped his blue lips with her skirt.
“Better,” he gasped. “In a moment I’ll be . . . better.”
“Shh, just rest.”
Sofia wrapped her arms around him, drawing him onto her shoulder and accepting the guilt into her heart.
“Thank you, Rafik,” she murmured.
“Now,” he said in a voice held together by willpower, “tell me why you are here.”
He didn’t touch her. The sinewy hands, which in some inexplicable way possessed the key to people’s minds, lay lifelessly on his lap. He did not even look at her. The piercing eyes were closed, no waves sent to wash through her brain. He was leaving it up to her, to tell him.
The Red Scarf Page 21
