Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  He had left Vienna late in the day and by the time he arrived in the mountains it was dark and snowing. Somehow he took a wrong turn and ended up in a village far from his intended destination. Luckily he found an inn and managed to convince the landlord to give him the last available room. The man watched in silence as Teschmaker filled out the registration and, when he proffered his passport, waved it away with a dismissive gesture. ‘No use for those around here.’ His dark eyes sparkled. He appeared to be part Asian and Teschmaker wondered if this small valley had been on Ghengis Khan’s travel itinerary.

  Upstairs, Teschmaker located his room. As he opened the door he had the oddest sensation of having stepped back in time. He was not surprised by the lack of a television set because at that time few of the small mountain villages had satellite receivers. But the absence of a phone and radio reminded him of just how far off the beaten track he had strayed. He unpacked and went downstairs in search of a drink.

  It was a large establishment and when Teschmaker commented to the landlord that it was surprising they were so fully booked the man explained that such an occurrence was rare. Teschmaker had arrived during the Festival of the Wives — an event that took place every ten years. Accepting Teschmaker’s offer of a flask of wine, the landlord — a garrulous type whose dark eyes were as sunken in one direction as his bulbous nose protruded in the other — was expansive on the topic.

  ‘For decades we have suffered from an exodus of young women,’ the man sighed. ‘Unlike the local men, who take over the family farm or business, or work in our timber mill, the women are lured away by the bright lights of the city. The problem became so serious that there came the day, just after the end of the war, when not one man in the village could find a wife.’

  ‘A problem indeed,’ Teschmaker commiserated. He had no particular interest in the subject but was finding it pleasant enough just to sit in front of the log fire and drink the wine.

  ‘Indeed.’ The man nodded sagely and sipped his drink. He was staring so deeply into the fire that for a moment Teschmaker thought he had forgotten the conversation. Then with another deep sigh and heave of his shoulders the man turned back to face him.

  ‘My father and some of the other council members discussed the problem and came to the conclusion that if things continued in such a way the village would die. Nine hundred years our families have been here. Generation after generation.’ He swilled the red wine in his glass, examining it as though he could see the generations swirling before his eyes.

  ‘A long time by any standards,’ Teschmaker offered, but the landlord hardly seemed to hear him.

  ‘They organised a competition and advertised it worldwide through small newspaper advertisements. Women were invited to send in a photograph and a two-hundred-word explanation of why they would like to marry a local man and live in our village. Even back then there were many countries where the women had few prospects and that first year we had hundreds of responses. A selection committee went over the entries and chose the twenty winners, who were notified. The government immigration officials were hesitant at first and even threatened to block the women at the border, but finally agreed on condition that any couple married under the scheme signed a pledge to remain in the village for the rest of their lives and that the village council must act as guarantor. Since then we’ve been holding the competition every ten years.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ Teschmaker refilled the man’s glass. ‘And what reasons do the women write for wanting to live in your village?’

  ‘Nobody really knows.’

  ‘But I thought you said they wrote two hundred words.’

  The landlord shook his head. ‘Most of them don’t speak or write our language so we just look at the photographs.’

  The two men sat in silence for a while, listening to the crack and spark of the fire, watching the patches of soot burning themselves out on the blackened stone. Eventually Teschmaker asked how the men were selected.

  ‘All the single men of marriageable age buy tickets in a lottery and then the twenty winners are drawn from a barrel. Tomorrow, the day of the festival, the winners will gather in the village hall and be introduced to the women. The local brass band plays for exactly one hour during which dancing is encouraged. When the band stops the men sit in a row and then it is up to the women to decide which man they want.’

  ‘The men don’t have a say in it?’ Teschmaker asked, his interest growing.

  ‘Not officially, but technically there is a chance during the dancing for them to tell the women what they have to offer. Unfortunately in practice it is unusual for anyone to speak the same language.’

  ‘What a strange custom!’ Teschmaker laughed. ‘Surely marriages to foreigners, let alone those founded on competitions and lotteries, must run into a lot of problems?’

  ‘Problems,’ the landlord said darkly, ‘are not permitted. The government in Vienna has stipulated that if the Festival of the Wives causes problems it will be banned.’

  The following morning Teschmaker found himself in the rather odd position of being the only male at breakfast. Of the twenty women in the room, none appeared to be the slightest bit hungry. Some picked nervously at their food, while others sipped juice or coffee and stared morosely out at the tattered remnants of the storm. He wondered what was going through their heads. What circumstances had brought them to this moment, to this place?

  Over a passable bowl of porridge and some excellent coffee, Teschmaker amused himself by trying to guess their nationalities. More than half of the women were obviously Asian. Two Pakistani or Indian women glanced at each other across the room, as if checking whether mutual support would be possible. He counted off the others: one Chinese woman, a Malay, two Korean, three olive-skinned women with distinct Slavic features, four Filipino and a lone Japanese. Two Latino women sat at the same table, while nearest to the window a slender Eurasian with short slicked-back hair was flicking distractedly through a magazine. The remainder looked European or American, though Teschmaker could not imagine why an American would aspire to marry into this particular village. He glanced outside. The snow had stopped and a weak sun was battling its way through clouds that seemed intent on shredding themselves on the surrounding peaks.

  After breakfast Teschmaker wrapped himself up in his coat, scarf and gloves and trudged through the snow to the community hall, a log building that stood alone on a small headland jutting out into the river. Below it, down the bank, the snow had been swept from the surface of the ice and several young children were practising their figure skating. Even from a distance Teschmaker could see that they were all of mixed race, living proof that twenty years of competition winners had left their genetic mark on the village.

  Inside the hall the marriage candidates had been seated facing each other in two neat rows of ornately decorated chairs. Each chair seemed to have a totemic significance: bear, wolf and other animal skins, and indeed entire heads, adorned some chairs, while others represented swans, owls and gothic images of what Teschmaker took to be forest or valley nymphs and goblins. The rest of the village’s adult population was crammed onto plain wooden benches at the back of the hall.

  Teschmaker had expected a festive atmosphere and so was surprised to feel the level of anxiety that pervaded the hall. Then he saw the cause of the concern. There was an empty chair on the male side of the room. One man was missing. Twenty women. Nineteen men. In an attempt to strike a calming note the band picked up their instruments, but their warm-up was cut short by the appearance of the village mayor. He quickly explained that the problem caused by the unexpected death of one of the candidates in a logging accident had been solved. A second ballot had just been held and a new candidate chosen.

  ‘I’m sure you will join me in welcoming him. A man, dear to our hearts, who so tragically lost his own wife to illness only a year ago.’

  A collective sigh went through the crowd and then scattered applause as a man made his way through the body of the hall to
take his seat with the other candidates. The man, stooped and walking with the aid of a stick, was in his seventies.

  The band struck up but for a few minutes nothing happened. People wrung their hands in embarrassment and exchanged quick glances, but it was the floor that was receiving the most attention. Finally a large bearded individual got to his feet. The audience applauded wildly and, flustered, the man turned and did an awkward clown-like bow to his supporters. Emboldened he marched across the room and then, as though changing his mind, veered away from the woman before him and stopped in front of one of the Filipino women.

  Avoiding his eyes, the woman rose to her feet and let herself be led onto the dance floor. Despite his size the man danced superbly and for the next few minutes he spun her around the floor to the accompaniment of a lively polka. Encouraged, the other men began to make their moves and soon all but two people were dancing. The remaining woman, flaxen-haired and of European appearance, simply shook her head when the old man shuffled over to her. Her refusal elicited murmurs and a few boos from the onlookers.

  Though those around him found her behaviour unacceptable, Teschmaker grinned at the stalemate. The woman obviously intended to sit out the entire event. Eventually the mayor intervened and spoke sternly to her, but she ignored him. The anger in the crowd was growing and it was only the intervention of the local policeman that stopped several of them approaching the woman to remonstrate with her. For her part she simply sat, impassive, unmoving, steadfastly refusing the old man’s and the mayor’s entreaties.

  When the music stopped the couples returned to their seats and the mayor called for quiet. ‘The time has come for the women to choose,’ he said, ‘and for us to open our hearts and welcome them into our little community.’

  As the applause died down all but one of the women stood up and walked over to where their prospective husbands were seated. For a moment or two they paused, glancing more often at each other than at the men. Then the Filipino woman who had been the first to dance returned to her dancing partner and beckoned to him to join her. Suddenly, as though afraid that the man they had selected would be snapped up by someone else, the remaining women moved forward. There was a brief altercation between the two Pakistani women as they both approached the youngest of the men. The boy looked little older than eighteen or nineteen, gangly but fresh-faced and smartly dressed. In the end he took the hand of the taller of the two women; her rival spat out some remark and turned to the two remaining men. She glanced at the old man but chose the other, a dark individual in his thirties.

  At this point the mayor and the local policeman moved in and firmly escorted the young blonde woman to her feet. She struggled but was unable to break free. Sensing that she was trapped, the fight seemed to go out of her and she joined the others now standing in front of the makeshift altar that had been erected on the bandstand. A priest, who Teschmaker hadn’t noticed in the crowd, rose and made his way forward to perform the quickest wedding ceremony he had ever witnessed.

  As the priest raised his hand to pronounce the assembled couples legally married the blonde woman swore loudly and slipped from the policeman’s grip. Before the startled crowd could react she had run from the hall. Pandemonium broke out.

  ‘Calm. I insist we have calm!’ shouted the mayor. Slowly the noise abated and people took their seats. ‘She will be dealt with,’ he said. This was greeted with shouts of approval.

  ‘I pronounce you man and wife,’ said the priest.

  It was beginning to snow again as Teschmaker returned to the hotel. Outside a police car’s blue light was strobing through the large feathering flakes. On the rear seat he noticed a large rusty anvil and a length of rope. It struck him as odd, but once he entered the inn he forgot all about it, his attention captured by the mini-siege that was developing inside.

  ‘She’s locked herself in her room,’ the landlord explained.

  Teschmaker decided to avoid the excitement and took himself off to the dining room for a late lunch. He followed this with what he intended to be a short catnap, but it was early evening by the time he opened his eyes. In order to wake himself up, he lit a cigarette and stepped through his window onto the fire escape. As he smoked he watched the activity down on the river. By the light of two tar torches some men were cutting a large hole in the ice. Ice fishing at night? This was, he chuckled to himself, a truly strange village.

  Walking into the bar he found himself in a conference of war. The town council, the policeman and the priest were huddled over their schnapps, the woman’s refusal to accept her husband being their only topic of conversation. The mood was black and ugly and Teschmaker suddenly knew that the scene he had observed from his window was not a preparation for fishing at all. Above the bar was a smoke-stained sign: ‘There is no drinking after death’. It seemed appropriate to the moment.

  ‘She refuses to open her door,’ the landlord informed him as he gave Teschmaker a shot of schnapps. ‘In fifty years this has never happened. If the government officials heard about this . . .’

  ‘Is she unwilling even to talk with you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. You see, nobody knows her language.’

  ‘I do. I’ll speak to her for you,’ Teschmaker offered. He had heard her swear earlier and recognised it as a Russian dialect.

  The landlord turned to the local councillors and conveyed Teschmaker’s offer. It was accepted unanimously.

  ‘Her name is Irina. Tell her she has one hour. If she does not agree to come out and go to her husband in that time, then we’ll come in and get her. Tell Irina that her behaviour is jeopardising the tradition of our festival.’

  ‘And what will you do if she refuses to cooperate even when you get her out?’

  ‘Leave that to us.’ The landlord shook his head slowly, as though such an outcome were impossible to comprehend.

  Up on the first floor Teschmaker knocked gently at the door. There was no reply. For a moment he worried that she might have pre-empted the villagers and taken her own life, but then he heard a muffled sound from inside the room. At least she was still alive.

  ‘Hello, Irina?’ He paused then continued in her native tongue. ‘I heard you speak earlier. You come from near Murmansk, don’t you?’

  ‘Who are you?’ The voice was firm, fuelled by anger rather than fear. She obviously had no idea of the fate that awaited her if she refused the marriage. The idea of a young woman ending her life in the freezing waters of this place was repugnant to Teschmaker.

  ‘I’m a friend. I need to talk to you.’

  The sound of her mother tongue was enough to convince her and Teschmaker heard the bolt slip free. He went in and shut the door behind him.

  ‘I think she now appreciates the gravity of her situation,’ Teschmaker reported as he came downstairs. ‘She said to thank you for your patience and she will be out of the room within the hour time limit you set.’

  ‘And will she go to her husband?’ The policeman tossed back his schnapps and held out his glass for another. ‘Will she keep the old man warm?’

  ‘I’m afraid you are going to have to ask Irina that,’ Teschmaker replied solemnly.

  For the next fifteen minutes he drank with the local men then excused himself to go to the toilet. Letting himself out the rear door he made his way around to the front of the inn and found that Irina had followed his instructions perfectly. She was waiting for him in the police car where Teschmaker’s bag shared the back seat with the anvil and rope.

  ‘The key to your room,’ she said and handed it to him. ‘I shut the window behind me.’

  ‘Thank you, Irina.’

  As he eased off the handbrake and let the police car roll silently down the hill away from the inn, he dropped the keys out the window. ‘I think I’ll consider myself checked out,’ he said.

  When they arrived in Vienna they dumped the police car, then Teschmaker made contact with Irina’s embassy and arranged an appointment for the following day. Later he phoned the hi
re-car company and reported that his car had broken down and gave them the name of the village. The car company apologised profusely. Later still, he and Irina enjoyed an intimate dinner at a smart restaurant and then booked into a small comfortable hotel.

  ‘You could be my husband,’ she said after they had made love.

  ‘No,’ Teschmaker laughed. ‘I’m afraid not. I am a very married man.’

  He closed the notebook. The scotch and the late hour were closing in on him and though he knew it would have been sensible to get some food into his stomach, he opted instead to make his way to bed. As he fell asleep the image in his head was not of Mandy, Sally or even Irina, but Jane.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The metal-studded tyres were fighting a losing battle with the ice. Several times on the ten-minute ride from the train station the taxi slewed sideways, the driver swearing profusely at the failure of the snowplough drivers to keep the road in better condition. He also swore at whoever was responsible for the weather. Laverov had checked the forecast before leaving Moscow and had been expecting fine conditions, minus twenty-three degrees Celsius with a wind chill factor of minus twenty-two. But someone had forgotten to tell whichever department was in charge of dispensing the weather to this part of the country. It was considerably warmer: minus eight or nine and snowing. Very pleasant.

  He steadied himself against the door as they slid sickeningly, narrowly avoiding a car broken down in the middle of what Laverov assumed was supposed to be a road. The driver made some cutting remarks about the unfortunate motorist’s mother and her nasty predilection for sex with a variety of endangered wildlife. For his part Laverov offered no comment, but gripped the seat more firmly and attempted to peer through the small hole that the driver had scraped in the ice-covered window. He caught a glimpse of one of the few functioning street lights, but apart from that nothing. The driver must be navigating by instinct rather than sight. Fortunately the ice, snow and lateness of the hour meant that there were few other vehicles on the road. Welcome to Arkhangelsk, Laverov thought and gritted his teeth as they bumped over something. A kerb? A body? No, probably not. Nobody with any sense would be out on the streets now including, it seemed, Volodarsky, the first deputy police chief, who Laverov had requested meet him at the station. Something more important must have cropped up, he told himself, unconvincingly. Arkhangelsk looked as though the majority of the population had abandoned it to the winter. Very sensible.