“No good will come of this move. Mark my words. You’ll see,” Sasha observed.
“I thought you wanted him gone,” Galina replied. “You ought to be delighted.”
“The next thing you know, we’ll hear that Goran has left his digs at Bella Zeffina’s house and joined Viktor at Bogdan’s.” Galina said nothing. “I tell you, they are an unholy trio.”
With a puckish smile, Galina said, “We’ll have privacy again.”
“Not entirely,” he corrected her. “There’s still the lab, and you can bet Goran and Viktor will be spending a lot of time there, up to no good.”
“You are entirely too suspicious. One would think that you had something to hide.”
“It’s the times.”
“Well,” she said, making for the door, “I can’t argue with that.”
✷
A prolonged period of rain plagued Balyk, causing cellars to flood, roofs to leak, and roads to become boggy. The horse-driven sleds that glided so easily on the winter ice were useless in the ankle-deep mud. Then, too, there was the fog that marinated the countryside. Thick clouds hung in every valley, and the sky overhead seemed low enough to touch. Unlike the rains of April and May, February precipitation was a cold harbinger of the uncomfortable months ahead. Clothes took days to dry, even when hung near a stove; electrical circuits, never dependable at best, short-circuited; and the generator at the Michael School sputtered and frequently plunged classrooms into darkness. Any motorist foolish enough to drive his vehicle in such wet weather was sure to experience an electrical failure. Only the local storyteller appreciated the foul conditions, which made her tales of mermaids, water sprites, and demons all the more present. Bella Zeffina invited the local children to come to the elementary school on Saturday afternoon to hear her tell the tale of the water snake. In the meantime, she said, “Be careful. Bad dreams are related to water.” Alya begged to attend. Galina shrugged and said, “Why not?” and Sasha told her to dress warmly and take her galoshes.
Bella Zeffina, considered by the locals as something of a sorceress, loved children, kept a clean house, cooked Polish dishes for her husband, Max Zeffin, who had come from Lvov, and had an inexhaustible supply of folktales that she shared with the children on special occasions. The current forty-day rainfall qualified as an unusual event. With her dimpled cheeks and elbows, round face, pale blue eyes, and flaxen-gray hair done up in a coiled hank, she rested her heavy body on a stool, rolled up her wool socks, pulled her knitted shawl tightly around her shoulders, lowered her eyelids, and began.
Once upon a time, an old woman like me had a daughter. (Bella, in fact, had lost a young daughter to smallpox.) Her name was Abigail. While she was swimming in the local pond, a snake, who introduced himself as Vikenti, which means “conquering,” came out of the water and rested on her clothes, which she had spread on a bush. When Abigail left the pond, she discovered the snake, who said, “If you want your clothes back, you’ll have to marry me.” Well, Abigail couldn’t walk home without any clothes on, so she agreed, thinking that it was nonsense that a girl and a snake could wed.
Arriving home, she told her mother what had happened. Her mother scoffed at the very idea of a human being and a reptile being joined in marriage. And there the matter stood, because both the mother and daughter forgot all about it. But several weeks later, the snake wriggled up to Abigail’s cottage. Finding the windows and doors locked, Vikenti stole into the house through the chimney, which left him covered with soot and resembling a demon. Abigail tried to run out of the house, but Vikenti caught her, carried her back to the pond, and dragged her into the water. On the bottom of the pond, he miraculously turned into a well-spoken young man, explaining that out of the water he became a snake but under the water he was a human. Abigail and Vikenti lived submerged for several years and had one daughter, Alina, which means “bright and beautiful.” One day, Abigail said that she wanted to visit her mother and show off her daughter. Vikenti agreed. Abigail asked him how she could return to the bottom of the pond after she returned from seeing her mother. Vikenti told her to call his name three times. Abigail spent a week with her mother and related how good her life was at the bottom of the pond. One day, her mother asked was there some secret to reentering the water? She said she need only call her husband’s name three times.
Then Abigail’s mother stole from the house, went to the edge of the pond, and called “Vikenti, Vikenti, Vikenti.” When he surfaced, he appeared as a snake. The mother, who had brought with her a sharpened axe, cut off the head of the snake, causing the water in the pond to grow dark with blood. On learning of her mother’s betrayal, Abigail took her daughter to the pond and wept and wailed, calling Vikenti’s name. But all she heard was the silent lapping of the water among the lily pads. Knowing some of Vikenti’s magic, a sorrowful Abigail turned her daughter into a wren and herself into a nightingale, and they both flew off on the wind, never to return.
For some reason, Galina felt uncomfortable listening to Alya retell the story. She had always feared snakes, but was that the reason for her discomfort? That night, she recounted to Sasha the story and her response to it. Perhaps he could provide some insight into her feelings. He pondered her words and after a long pause, remarked gnomically, “The earth and snake alike renew their skins, and that is when the world’s new age begins.”
Trouble arose before the rains ceased. A note appeared on the school bulletin board saying cryptically, “Sasha Parsky’s time is over.” The author of the note was a mystery. Had it come from a teacher, a student, a parent? No one knew. If it constituted some kind of cabal, Sasha thought he’d better learn more, if possible. He spoke individually to his teachers, but though all of them had seen the note and it had become a source of whisperings, the staff disclaimed any knowledge of the writer. Perhaps in fear of inviting the director’s suspicions, the teachers never met in groups, but rather entered into colloquy two by two. A week passed and nothing further untoward occurred. But in the second week, another note appeared: “Director Parsky OUT!” It was then that Sasha glimpsed the intent behind the two notes. They were not intended to scare him but to get him to relinquish the directorship of the school. Brodsky had experienced similar events, so he might be able to tell Sasha which teachers were acting behind his back to expel him.
As usual, Brodsky sat reading and smoking. On hearing Sasha’s story, he skeptically said:
“It doesn’t sound like one of the old-timers. They’d complain directly to the secret police. Have you heard from Filatov?”
“Nothing.”
“Then I would assume that someone is trying to organize an internal coup.” He paused just long enough to light a new cigarette from the old one. “What about this new fellow you’ve told me about?”
“Viktor Harkov is quite capable of rabble-rousing, but why would he want to plot against me?”
Brodsky, wearing a worn cardigan covered with food stains, shook his head in disbelief. “Simple. He wants your job.”
Sasha noticed that Avram’s sweater was missing a button. For some reason, he wondered where it had gone. His mind wandered. Only slowly did he bring his attention back to what Avram had said. Viktor would be the last person to want the directorship. It would mean being vetted by the secret police. In no time, his betrayal in Ryazan, and his connection to Lukashenko, would be known. Surely Viktor wasn’t foolish enough to think that a forged passport with the name Ivan Goncharov would pass scrutiny by the OGPU, renamed the NKVD. Perhaps Viktor had someone else in mind to become director, someone who would defer to Viktor and treat his support not grudgingly, but devoutly, unlike Sasha’s attitude. If so, who would that person be?
“Which of the teachers,” Sasha asked, “was particularly bitter over your original appointment and wanted to replace you?”
Brodsky laughed, bringing on a coughing fit. Spitting into the fire, he hoarsely replied, “All of them, but esp
ecially Olga Oborskaia. She felt that teaching physics entitled her to a higher academic position, since physics and math are harder to master than the other disciplines, except perhaps for chemistry. But I long felt that Vera Chernikova, for all her surface sweetness, would have been glad to join Olga in a palace coup. There has always been among the staff an undercurrent of rivalry: those trained in the physical sciences against everyone else.”
“You’re telling me that Olga or Vera or both would conspire to gain my position? If Viktor is stirring the pot, he presumably has most of the staff on his side. I seem to have lost this game.”
“Then strike first.”
“How?”
“I’ve told you before: Denounce him.”
✷
Although he abhorred snooping, Sasha used his passkey after hours to enter the classroom-offices of his teachers. In almost every instance, the filing cabinets and desks were securely locked. Where a drawer was accessible, nothing of importance was found. On the desk of Vera Chernikova he found a diagram of a mouth, designating the various parts of the oral cavity: lips, gingiva (gums), hard and soft palates, uvula, papillae of tongue, palatine tonsil, tongue, and the teeth. At the bottom of the page in small script were the letters “c.c.” He came away from his nocturnal endeavors disappointed.
Without telling Galina about his unsuccessful search, he asked her help to locate the person behind the notes. Her own distaste for surveillance of any kind rendered her reluctant to do anything more than keep an eye on the bulletin board. Sasha felt that given all his favors, at the least she could ingratiate herself with the staff and try to find out if a plot was afoot. Galina refused. Her open disdain for becoming what she called a “mole” reinforced Sasha’s fears that she and Viktor were lovers. He told himself he had cause for concern. On one occasion, he had found them in the farmhouse alone, after Viktor had taught his one class and Galina had returned home for lunch. When he walked in, they averted their eyes and stuttered through explanations that Sasha found unconvincing. His original impulse had been to enlist Alya’s help, but he could not bring himself to induct a child into the filthy business of spying. Now he wasn’t so sure. With Galina refusing to cooperate, his thoughts once again turned to Alya. He might just use her after all, but he would have to be subtle in his approach. She was much too clever to fall for some obvious ruse.
“We have to find out Viktor’s birthday so we can prepare a party for him. Wouldn’t that be nice, Alya?”
“Why not just ask him?”
“That would give the whole thing away.”
“Maybe Mamma knows.”
“She and Viktor are such good friends, I think if she asked he’d know in a minute.”
“But what if she already knows?”
“Well, that’s different.”
“But we must keep it all a secret.”
“I’d never tell. There are a lot of things I know that I never repeat. Mamma says I’d make a good soldier.”
“Really? I would never have guessed that you knew secrets.”
“A lot of them.”
“Well, maybe someday you’ll tell me one or two of them.”
She reflected for a moment and said, “Maybe.”
This conversation took place shortly after Galina rejected his plan as unsavory. Sasha and Alya were in the barn brushing Scout, she on one side, he on the other. Each had a strong-bristled brush that came with a handstrap. As they stroked the pony, he punctuated his comments about animal husbandry with his questions. She seemed intent on the job at hand and gave no indication that he was trying to use her. In fact, when she had said that she knew “things,” he had let the conversation trail off so that his wordlessness would sink in, providing an impulse to talk. As she brushed the animal’s mane, she ran her hand through the hair and let it fall lazily off to one side.
“I once saw Viktor do this with Mamma.”
“Do what?”
“Run his hand through her hair.”
“Well, he is, after all, a good friend.”
“I think he loves her.”
Sasha smiled at Alya but deliberately failed to respond. After a long pause, she added: “That’s why I stayed with the Baturins when she went to see him.”
“Oh?”
“She didn’t want me along. I know that.”
“Well, I get the impression they must have quarreled, because they’re not so friendly of late.”
Alya blurted, “Yes, they are!”
“When I see them at school,” Sasha lied, “they hardly speak.”
“I can sometimes hear them at night.”
“Talking?”
“One of the boards in the attic is loose.”
“Where? I must fix it.”
“Over our bedroom, near the closet. I sometimes crawl into the closet and listen. The time Benjie ate with us, he listened too.”
“Alya, you really shouldn’t . . . unless it’s important.”
She made no reply. They put away the brushes, swept up, and returned to the farmhouse. Alya said nothing more about it for the rest of the day; but on the following afternoon, after returning from her tutoring lesson, she coyly said to Sasha:
“My teacher taught us the meaning of the word ‘discreetness.’ She said discreetness is a kindness, and its opposite can hurt people. But she also said sometimes it’s right to report what we know.”
“Know what?”
“What you were talking about: important things.”
Galina’s untimely entrance put an end to the discussion, except for Alya telling her mother that she had learned several new words, and one of them was “discreetness.”
“It’s a good word to know, my dear Alya, and an even better one to put into practice,” Galina advised as she went to her room.
The child shook her head and ran off. Sasha sighed in relief, immensely glad she was not indiscreet.
A few minutes later, a loud click outside announced Viktor’s presence. He had made an appointment to see Galina and hoped that Sasha would excuse them while they talked.
“It’s about a memorial stone for my brother,” said Viktor.
Sasha started for the barn to find Alya. But he caught a glimpse of Goran and stopped at the photo lab. Goran had several wooden packing cases in which he was carefully loading his equipment.
“Are you moving?” asked a surprised Sasha.
“The rains have made the walls sweat and I see evidence of mold. So I plan to transfer the lab to Bogdan Dolin’s bungalow. He’s offered me a dry spot at the back of the house.”
“Do you plan to move in or will you continue to board with the Zeffins? She’s quite a storyteller,” said Sasha, hoping to dissuade Goran from leaving the Zeffins high and dry without a boarder.
“Oh, I have no intention of living elsewhere. It’s just the lab that I’m moving. But thank you for allowing me to use this space and disrupt the routine of your house. I have some good portraits of you and Galina and Alya. I’ll crop and frame them by May Day.”
“Can I give you a hand?”
“No thanks, I’ll be fine. I’ve even arranged for a car to transfer the cases.”
“A car?”
“My uncle.”
“Of course.”
They shook hands and Sasha continued into the barn. As expected, Alya was grooming her pony. Wordlessly, Sasha picked up a brush and joined her. After a temporary lull in the rain and a brief burst of sunshine, dark clouds moved in again. Several minutes had passed, and neither he nor Alya had spoken. He often felt that their silent times together were more affectionate than their spoken ones. Silence, he had concluded, speaks more fondly than words. Although it can serve ill, as when one person won’t speak to another owing to anger, it can also serve good, as when people are spellbound in the presence of some wondrous moment or thing; or when s
trong feelings render one mute. The examples were endless. Why, he asked himself, didn’t he write a treatise on the subject and root it in some historical event? Such a paper might advance his career. Too many teachers and academics with fruitful ideas never shared them in print. Why did so many in his profession find it hard to write? Their ideas, when spoken, often revealed first-rate minds, but their unwillingness to take up pen and paper argued . . . what? Lassitude? Indiscipline? A busy life? Fear of rejection? He had read enough scholarly papers in his young life to know that not all ideas or arguments were transcendent. Did self-doubts inhibit the profession?
“You’re not listening,” said Alya. “I just told you something.”
“Sorry, I was daydreaming.”
“Mamma tells me to pay attention and not go wool gathering.”
“She’s quite right. Now what were you saying?”
“The last time I hid in the closet I could hear Mamma snipping at Uncle Viktor. She told him to find another place to live.”
“Really?”
“Aren’t you glad?” She smiled devilishly. “I am.”
“I know what you mean.”
“She also was mad at him because of someone called C.C. Those were the letters she used, C.C.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he had been teasing.”
Sasha weighed the wisdom of asking what he wanted to know most. After a few false starts, he said, “Does the floor creak a lot? I mean the loose board. Does it sound as if I should fix the floor so the bed doesn’t fall through?”
Alya shrugged. She no longer had any interest in the subject.
Returning to the house, Sasha heard Viktor’s familiar click as he left. Asking Galina to join him for tea at the kitchen table, Sasha filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. Touching her hand, he slowly gave voice to his fears.
“I have a feeling—mind you, it’s only a feeling—that Viktor would like to see me replaced as director of the school.”
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