The bells continued their mournful clanging. He smoked the last of his tobacco and tossed the remains in the gutter.
They wouldn’t be looking for three men, he thought. Only one.
Hokhodiev was standing when he got back. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, but he didn’t meet Ryzhkov’s eye. He was looking off in the middle distance and kept one hand on the stone wall for balance. Dima was standing there ready to catch him. Stepping like a man with sore feet, a tight little smile, he climbed into the carriage well enough, but once the door was closed he groaned and fell against Dima and collapsed.
Ryzhkov stalled for a moment before negotiating with the driver, trying to remember the maps he’d seen, the best directions out of town. Trying to remember the nearest cities, trying to recall the last time he’d read a newspaper seeking anything other than the movements of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand during the lead-up to the royal visit. He put his head back in the carriage door. ‘We’re going on the road to Sofia, we’ll get you a doctor along there, eh, Kostya?’
Hokhodiev shook his head. ‘Get away, find some pliers, pull it out yourself. I can feel it,’ he gestured to his side. ‘Get over the border and then a doctor. Use your head, brother …’
Dima looked up at him. His face was stricken.
Ryzhkov took a deep breath, put on a smile, and went out to talk to the driver.
‘Let’s go. We’re looking to take my friend back to his house in a little town that’s ah … east of here, on the way to Sofia, I can’t remember the name—’
‘Uzice?’
‘That sounds like it.’
‘It’s in the mountains, on the way to Nis.’
‘Can you take us there?’
‘It’s a long way.’
‘I know.’
‘All night.’
‘That’s fine. He wants to see his mother, eh? The doctor says she’s dying. It’s this place called Uzice, you know that?’
‘To Uzice, sure. Get some water on the way, yes.’ ‘He wants to talk to a doctor there, about his mother, eh?’
‘They have doctors there in that town.’
‘Good. And we can get something to eat on the way, I think, yes?’ Ryzhkov held up an Austrian twenty-mark banknote.
‘Leave it to me, excellency.’ The driver smiled.
‘Is this your carriage?’ Ryzhkov smiled up at the man. ‘Yes, excellency, I own it.’
‘And the horses, as well?’ The horses looked thin, he thought.
‘Yes, excellency.’
‘Are they strong enough to take us there?’
‘Oh, yes. Plenty strong.’
‘You have water?’
‘Yes, plenty of water, excellency.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s go along, then.’
And life was leaving Sarajevo by night. Passing through the suburbs, a cursory look and salute from a sleepy gendarme at the boundary of the city. And life was Hokhodiev sleeping, piled against Dima’s side. Shivering and muttering in the moonlight.
He and Dima talked, planning the next few hours, the next few days. They could get out, they agreed. But a doctor first.
Death was the rocky hillside where they stopped, not yet reaching Uzice. Hokhodiev delirious and breathing shallowly. Ryzhkov reached up and tapped on the roof of the cab and the horses slowed. ‘Got your gun?’ he asked Dima quietly. The younger man nodded.
‘It’s here.’ He stepped out and called up to the driver. The man looked at him; there was nothing around but a ruined stone farmhouse at the crest of the hill. The driver gave it a look, frowned. ‘Not here, excellency,’ he said. ‘Later.’
‘Just up there, that will do,’ Ryzhkov said. ‘My friend wants to buy this carriage from you, is it for sale?’
‘No, not for sale,’ the driver said, his face wary. Ryzhkov looked at him for a moment, nodded. ‘Just up there at that house. My friend wants to stop up there.’
The driver shrugged.
‘You think about the price,’ he said.
At the ruins of the house they settled on a price in Austrian marks for the carriage and horses. They didn’t have to use the gun; the money was more than a fair exchange and the driver smiled, bowed elaborately, and pretended not to notice as Dima carried Hokhodiev out and in behind the wall of the dilapidated house. Watching them he pocketed the money, they shared out some of the bread, and he turned around and walked back in the early morning’s light, down the long winding road back to Sarajevo.
They led the horses around the lee side of the hill and let them graze while they made a place for Kostya to rest in the back of the tumble-down building. It was a bad place to wait. Risky; obviously used with some frequency, the kind of place where a tired driver might decide to hole up for the evening. But it had the benefit of being sheltered from the winds which piled up against the top of the ridge—cold even in summer, and there was a place to build a fire. Dima went out to wander around the hilltop in search of wood, there was nothing left within the house itself.
Hokhodiev was breathing rapidly, then his breath would suddenly stop. He would seem to cough, or be caught in a snore, then his eyes would snap open. It must have hurt. He woke and Ryzhkov dipped his handkerchief in a little of their water and touched it to his lips.
‘Sorry …’ he said, shivering as if he had the fever. ‘Kostya …’
‘All right …’
‘I can get Lena out, I could do that for you, eh?’
He could feel Hokhodiev shaking his head, just a little contraction of the muscles in his neck. Dima came in with an armful of twigs. ‘How are you, old man?’ he said with false cheeriness as he broke the twigs over the remains of a fire. ‘This whole place smells like piss,’ he said as he did it. He looked over at Hokhodiev again. ‘You rest, then we’ll get you to the doctor, eh?’ It sounded like someone talking to a baby. Or a mule. He built a little arena for the twigs, crunched them into a ball and looked over and smiled.
‘… Kostroma …’ Hokhodiev said. His voice was quiet, eyes closed. Like a man dreaming. Dudenko fumbled in his jacket for a match.
‘… Should go, Pyotr. Go …’ Hokhodiev said quietly.
‘I could try to get her out, Konstantin, I can go back and at least try,’ he said. His voice was almost that of a child. Begging now.
‘No … see her sooner if you don’t, eh? Go …’ Konstantin said. And Ryzhkov tried to smile, tried to hide the fact that, yes, soon it would be over. That soon, too soon now, they would go.
‘Kostroma …’ Hokhodiev said again after a moment. The twigs caught in a series of little chained crackles and Dima began fanning them into flames with his hand. ‘That’s where we met,’ Hokhodiev said. Ryzhkov knew it, of course. Knew it well. ‘Thirteen, the time we met, well … when I first saw her …’
‘Just thirteen?’ he said, knowing what response was expected of him.
‘… beautiful girl … and … afraid of me, eh?’
‘Mmm …’
‘… swimming there …’ he said and faded away for a moment.
‘Swimming?’ Ryzhkov said, trying to keep him in the dream.
‘Give him a little water,’ Dima whispered. The fire sputtered. It wasn’t going to last long.
‘… swimming down the river from … from …’
‘Griette’s …’
‘… from the … silk works and we didn’t know about that, eh?’ He thought he saw Hokhodiev nodding, a little movement, as if he was laughing. Kostroma, Ryzhkov remembered, suddenly seeing the river, children playing in the waters. Wishing that Hokhodiev had stayed there. He could have worked there, he would be in Griette’s huge mill right now, living in the town with Lena and maybe even children. Right now he would be hard at work on the shop floor, instead of bleeding to death in a shepherd’s hut on a Serbian hillside. A big happy man bringing in steady money.
But he and Lena had wanted to see the city, he’d told Ryzhkov once. He had always wanted to live in a metropolis; even with its mills Kostroma had been to
o Russian for him.
And now, here they were.
‘… and … then when we came out we were all blue, from here, down …’ Hokhodiev laughed thickly, the head bobbing just a time or two. ‘Blue …’ he said again.
‘Rest now, rest now, Kostya.’
‘… and, you know, tried everything …’
‘Rest now.’
‘… to get ourselves clean …’
Ryzhkov tried to watch him now, but tears were in his eyes and he could only see Konstantin as a blur, just an outline resting against the dirty floor of the hut.
‘… a child in Kostroma …’ Hokhodiev said again, very slowly. Sleepily. As if he were thinking about it, considering it very carefully. Something fragile and miraculous, that everlasting blue stain from long ago.
‘Ahh …’ said Dima after a long moment, turning away. ‘Ah …’ he said again.
And then Hokhodiev was quiet. His head slowly dropping down, all his blood leaking away.
Ryzhkov sat and watched him for a long time. As if they were both caught between heartbeats, as if there was no other universe but one man dead, and another man watching. As if all the talking was gone, as if it had never happened, none of it. A void where the living used to be; the memories, the jokes, the lies. Just a life gone out with no answer from the heavens.
The fire had died out, only a few wisps of smoke curling towards the broken ceiling. Dima got to his feet and stood in the doorway for a moment and then went outside.
They carried Hokhodiev’s body out of the little building, hurrying as they did it, because they were visible to anyone coming along the road from either direction. They placed him on the ground, behind a rock, took his papers, divided the money, and then covered him with stones. It went quickly. Stones were plentiful on the hillside and they both worked swiftly, wanting it to be over.
When it was done they stood there for a moment, the wind rising and chilling them through their sweaty clothes.
‘Goodbye friend. God bless you.’ Ryzhkov looked over at Dima who met his eye and just shook his head. ‘Goodbye, old man. I’ll see you soon,’ he said quietly.
From the summit they could see the clouds rushing up against the hill, darkening. To the north there was a dark grey fan of rain falling against the rising ground.
‘Well …’ Dima said.
‘I guess we should …’
‘It’s over now, yeah-yeah?’ Dima said.
‘Oh, yes. Over. Where are you going?’
‘I was thinking … Greece. Should be able to get there from Nis, right? There ought to be a train running south from there, I think.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Get down there, get new papers down there, maybe go to Italy …’
‘Mmm …’ he said, watching the rain sweeping over the ridgeline. On the other side of the mountain he could see the curve of a river as it ran … down to Nis, probably he thought.
‘What about you, Pyotr? You want to come along?’ ‘No.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back.’ He turned and looked at the younger man. ‘You’re crazy, you know that?’ Dima looked away from him, dug a toe into the dirt there by Hokhodiev’s grave. ‘Trying to get revenge on Evdaev or expose him, whatever you’re dreaming, that’s a purely crazy idea, Pyotr. No one is going to believe you.’
‘I know.’
‘And there’s your friend, too … so … you’d better take this,’ he reached behind and pulled Hokhodiev’s pistol out of his belt, held it out. At first Ryzhkov just stared at it. ‘If you’re going back to Piter in these circumstances, you’ll probably need it, right?’
Ryzhkov shook his head, then reached out and took the gun. It was irrevocable, he thought. Like a compass needle swinging back northward. ‘I don’t know, Dima. You’re probably right.’
‘I know I’m right. I’m going to Greece. Get a job mending telephones. One day, if the two of you get out of all this you can tell them you were once so lucky to know Vladimir Dudenko,’ he said and reached over and gave Pyotr a push on the shoulder.
‘I’ll tell the grandchildren.’
‘Sure, sure you will. But I understand. You’re crazy and … it’s unfinished business, I suppose, yeah?’ Dima looked at him.
‘Yes.’
‘Well.’ Dima stepped over and embraced him, surprisingly strong, stepped back and gave him a little slap on the cheek. ‘Let’s not grow old here, let’s get to Nis, then … brother.’
And hurrying then, they walked down to the horses, picking their way down the stony slope like elderly men with bad joints, Ryzhkov thinking that Dima was probably right, that going to Greece was the smart thing to do, the safe thing. Going to Greece, or Italy or anywhere outside of Russia was something that he should have done long, long ago. And he found himself moving quickly now over the uneven ground, starting to panic, worried that someone, some shepherd with his dog might find the grave within the next few hours, that now his time, too, was running out.
He dropped Dima near the station, a quick wave and then the boy was gone around a corner, his coat dangling over his shoulder, a spring in his step and a last narrow smile as he headed for a new life.
Ryzhkov drove behind the station, pulled the carriage into the first lane he came to, pried loose the number tag from the back of the carriage and threw it over the railing into the brown waters of the river, walked a few streets away and pushed Hokhodiev’s identity papers down a gutter.
Deeper in the city he bought a traveller’s trunk, a blank journal, a box of pencils, and a pair of reading glasses. There was enough money left, so he could stop at a tailor’s and have a summer suit made in the local style. By evening he had transformed himself into a facsimile of a touring poet-artist, complete with a sweet-smelling shave and haircut, and so he was ready to tell the man at the station barriers that he was en route to Belgrade where he would take the riverboat along the Danube as far as he could—a great adventure—all the way to the Black Sea and the land of the Moldavians.
The ticket-seller laughed at him. ‘There’s nothing but swamps there,’ he said and stamped the tickets. ‘A man could get lost and just end up going round and round for the rest of his life!’ He pushed the tickets through the little window, shook his head and laughed again.
And Ryzhkov laughed with him.
FORTY-ONE
Men. Sometimes, most times, they are impossible. She cannot read him, and honestly, if she were to allow herself that luxury, that rare privilege mostly unknown to her, since she has constructed her life with Sergei out of a tissue of half-lies, shared flatteries and, well … dreams that they have both given voice to, but never taken the trouble to realize—if she were to somehow throw all that aside to let herself be honest, honest just for a moment, then she could only arrive at the conclusion that he has fallen … honestly, into insanity.
For instance, he does not sleep. Not for nearly two weeks. He reads and re-reads the newspapers obsessively. He spends all his time in the tiny room, his special room. The telegraph chatters continuously. She has Anna bring up food, tea, and she takes it to him herself, a girlish rapping at the door, the bookcases pulled aside—she has to put the tray down to do this, the hidden door is so heavy, and then without looking, lest he think she was spying on him, she passes him the sustenance. Sometimes he barely notices, other times he sits back and stares at her, not recognizing. And the room stinks now, stinks of his sweat and his cigars, is piled with papers and torn tapes from the machines that he’s installed. She can’t wait to get out, to tell the truth. But then he sits back and thanks her, smiling. Profusely. Smiling.
Of course it is all to do with the events in Bosnia. A prince has been killed, the archduke. She met him once. Met Rupert too. The whole damned family of block-heads. Thick unimaginative people, she thought. The one she’s sad for is Sophie, with whom she can identify, after all she was a commoner, whom he married for love and thus began all his problems. Love. At least she had that at the end.
> But today he is happy.
A man and his wife are shot down in the street and he is happy? She tries to understand this, puts on her aggrieved face, pouts, and even in her tone of voice, challenges him.
He just laughs, dismisses her. In his eyes she’s a poor little ignorant ornament. Something bright and bubbly to trot out when he feels like getting dressed up. Too stupid to understand the affairs of great men of the world and their fancy machines that are so up-to-date that they have to be hidden away in a cupboard in their mistress’s house.
She doesn’t know anything about the world, he says. He says it outright! ‘You don’t know anything about the world,’ with that condescending laugh he uses when he wants to change the subject. As if she had never been anywhere, as if she was a peasant instead of someone who had performed all over Europe, even toured to the United States and Brazil. That’s not knowing about the world, though. That’s not crafty enough for him. ‘Forget trying to learn …’ And then a furious clatter, suddenly there are more telegrams that interrupt them, and he pulls the bookcase closed.
He’s made a killing, recently.
She knows that much. She knows he’s sold shares, lots of shares in advance of the assassination, and he’s just waiting now, waiting to pounce … waiting to buy. Waiting to plunge back in when the market reaches the bottom. She knows all that, she can hear all that. He talks on the telephone and she can hear, can’t she? She knows he’s into something with Nestor Evdaev and that it all hinges on ‘making a show’ somewhere over something. She knows about making a show.
Angry at him, bored with him too, she goes out for a walk, an excursion to look for a little peace but it turns out to be a mistake. Suddenly Petersburg is ugly. It comes in the form of a demonstration that interrupts her tram across town. A strike she thinks, metalworkers or newly organized peasants from one of the textile mills who want more money, better food, improved lodging in the company dormitories. Well, who can blame them? But then she sees that the crowd is massing directly in front of the German embassy, screaming repeated choruses of rhymed insults at the building. High in the façade she can glimpse embassy personnel alternately clustering near the windows and then retreating back into the shadows for safety.
Field of Mars Page 34
