But Razumovsky seems oblivious to these undercurrents. Striding towards me, he embraces me, almost lifting me from my feet.
‘Otto! So good to have you back! Travel is clearly good for you! You look a good five years younger than when you set off!’
And, releasing me, he turns and puts an expansive arm out towards the pale young woman. He is drunk, of course.
‘Katerina, Otto, girls … Please welcome my wife, Birgitta.’
Drunk, yes, and stupid. Stupid not to realise what waves this whim of his will cause. Insensitive, too, but that’s his style. In that, I think, he’s typically Russian. Katerina’s indrawn breath is audible, yet her father seems not to hear it. But she is not alone in being shocked. The girl is barely twenty, if she’s that, a good ten to fifteen years Katerina’s junior – and she will have to call her ‘mother’.
Before he can say another word, I grab his arm and drag him through, into the house, slamming the door behind me.
‘Your wife?’
Razumovsky grins. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
I want to punch him. ‘Can’t you see what you’ve done, Mikhail?’
He stares at me, puzzled.
‘Did you even begin to think what Katerina would feel, putting that woman – that child – in her mother’s place?’
‘Otto?’
‘And your granddaughters? Did you think what this would do to them? How upset they’d be?’
‘But—’
‘No.’ And I’m furious now, having worked myself up into a rage. ‘All you thought of was your dick!’
Razumovsky opens his mouth, then closes it again, considering my last statement.
‘She is good, Otto. A good woman. Her mother—’
‘Her mother?’
He lowers his voice. ‘Her mother was my lover, you understand, in Tesov. I would go and spend a month with her, every summer, these past five years. But this year she died. Her daughter … I promised to look after her.’
‘Look after her, fine, but marry her? Bring her into your home?’
I’m conscious that I’m shouting, and that my voice is probably carrying out on to the porch, where Katerina and my daughters and half the household staff are standing, listening. I make an effort to calm myself, but I really am outraged by what he’s done.
‘You dumb-arsed Russian bastard!’
Razumovsky is astonished by my outburst. He shakes his head, then, unexpectedly, roars with laugher.
‘You think this affects anything, Otto? You think Katerina would allow it? No, I am only being kind to the girl, and besides …’ his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘she is a real wildcat beneath the sheets.’
I try to stare him out, to make him feel ashamed of himself, but Razumovsky has no shame. He shrugs, then turns his back on me, searching beneath the worktop for a flask of something. He emerges a moment later, clutching a flagon of red wine and, uncorking it, takes a mouthful.
‘So how was your trip, Otto?’
He has forgotten. Barely ten seconds have passed and he has already dismissed what I’ve said to him.
‘That woman—’
‘Is a goddess,’ he says, wiping his hand across his beard.
Walking past him, I throw open the door. The porch is empty. They have all gone. I turn back.
‘Mikhail …’
He staggers out, clutching the flagon. ‘Yes, my boy?’ And he puts his arm around my shoulders.
I cannot stay angry. Razumovsky is what he is, and he’s probably right about Katerina. Only he has done this family harm by marrying the girl.
He looks about him at the empty porch, a look of comic astonishment on his face. ‘Where are they?’
‘In the great field,’ I say. ‘You know, the feast?’
‘Then lead on,’ and he takes another, longer drink from the flagon then wipes his hand across his beard again, belches manfully and grins at me. ‘It’s so good to be home, don’t you think?’
247
The moon is full, stars scattered like a basketful of jewels upon the velvet dark. At the far end of the field, which has lain fallow since last autumn, they have dug a trench, ten yards long, two wide and two deep. They have lined it with logs and built a massive fire, which burns at the centre of a great square of trestle tables.
Razumovsky is right. Being home is good. Better than good. I sit at the head table, Katerina beside me, my girls to either side, my people – eight hundred muzhik, peasants, that is, and twenty household staff – gathered at the nearby tables, eating and drinking in the fire’s fierce blaze while our own musicians – five men and a boy – pound out a relentless melody.
It is only now that I understand what I have built here, for Cherdiechnost is not just an estate, it is, in its way, a little kingdom, an experiment in living. Oh, I’m not claiming I am the only ‘good’ master in this age, yet the context of history adds weight to what I’ve done here. There are no slaves here, for one. Every last man, woman and child on my estate is free – their freedom bought under the ancient process of barshchina, in this instance for three full years’ service on the land, the product of which has been ploughed back into the estate, to build the smithy and the storage barns, the workshops and, almost unique in this age, the crafts school. In that respect and others, this place is something new. For I have given the people here the chance to live happy, fulfilled lives, not lives of misery. To earn their little place upon God’s earth. There’s great pride here in what we’ve achieved, and as I look about me I see how they glow with the force of living.
How strange that is. I do not know these people, and yet I know them like my own pulse, the very beat of my heart.
There are eighteen of us seated at the long table. Katerina and my girls and I make seven. Across from me sits Razumovsky and his pale young bride. To his left is my master carpenter, Alexander, his stout little wife beside him, head down as she tucks into her meal. Further down the table is the head of the crafts school, Yuri something – I have forgotten already – and his assistant, who I’m told will shortly be his wife. My steward, Pavlenko, sits uncomfortably to my left, two places down, his tall, thin wife beside him, smiling constantly at everyone. I say uncomfortable, but it’s difficult to make the man rest and enjoy the meal, he is so keen to do his duty.
My daughters are to my right. Across from them sit three more guests, the blacksmith, Kleist, his Russian wife, and the priest, Iranov.
Kleist is a taciturn man. A Saxon, from a small village near Osnabruck, Kleist has the look of something made – hammered out on his own anvil, perhaps – he is so very still in himself. Asked a question, he will take a good minute or two to consider every aspect of it – as if inspecting a blade he has been beating out for imperfections – before answering. Fortunately, Father Iranov more than makes up for the smith in terms of volubility, talking constantly, ten to the dozen, as they say, such that it’s a surprise to find his plate cleared, his mead cup empty.
Father Iranov is a good fellow. A kind, funny, and deeply reasonable man. I found him – so Katerina tells me – in an inn in Suzdal’, lamenting his loss of faith. After an evening in his company I recruited him, built him his own stone church, and, more to the point, the crafts school. Not that he found God again. Far from it. Just that I persuaded him that a man of good character could often be a better priest than a man of rigid beliefs. And besides, I didn’t want a proper priest, not one of the meddlesome kind, anyway, though a priest I had to have.
Iranov, you see, is our ‘buffer’ – our very own ‘pretend’ priest. Were he not here, the Metropolitan of Kiev would appoint one to be his spy and chide us – maybe even punish us – for our godless ways. As it is, Iranov plays at being priest. And everyone’s kept happy. Whatever, he certainly looks the part, with his huge belly and his bushy black beard.
Seated across from me, his pale bride silent at his side, Razumovsky raises his mug and grins. ‘They love you, Otto! Look at them!’
‘And so the
y should,’ Katerina says, with mock indignation. ‘There’s not a fairer nor more generous master between here and Kiev!’
Father Iranov nods. ‘Nor one who’s better travelled!’
If it’s a dig at me, it’s delivered with a smile; but it makes me wonder just how often I’ve been away across the years.
A good deal, probably, unless I’ve badly neglected my duties to the volk. But it makes me wonder just how much I can ask Katerina. Last night … I yawn … last night there was no chance to talk. I smile. Or no desire to. Being back in her arms was enough. But now I’m curious.
She knows about my future. Could tell me precisely what happens and where and when and how, and that – so we Reisende have had drilled into us since we were boys – is dangerous knowledge.
And yet I’m tempted. Tempted to ask her just what I’ve told her across the years.
For I must have told her something.
She leans close. ‘What is it, Otto?’
‘Not now.’
Her eyes search mine. ‘All right. But no secrets. Remember? We tell each other everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘You agreed.’
‘Did I? When?’
She smiles. ‘Any time now.’
‘Any …?’
I see that she’s ribbing me, and smile.
She looks down at her plate. ‘Did you know I was betrothed once, before I met you?’
‘Kravchuk, you mean?’
‘No … to a boy named Peter. A local boy. He died of the pox six months before the wedding. He caught it one day and was dead the next. It almost killed us, too. My father …’ She looks up, meets my eyes. ‘You can imagine. To have a daughter and not to see her married, that is a poor fate for a father. And then you showed up.’
After Kravchuk, I think, and begin to understand why for the first time.
‘Don’t be angry with your father,’ I say, taking her hands. ‘He must be lonely.’
She almost smiles. ‘I’m not, only …’ Her eyes move away, then back to mine. ‘Can’t you change it, Otto? Slip back in time and …?’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I can’t.’
She’s about to argue further when a great squeal goes up from my girls and, almost as one, they climb down from their places and hurry towards a cloaked figure who has appeared on the far side of the fire.
I watch through the flickering glare of the flames as they crowd round the stooping figure – a woman, it seems – greeting her like they’d greet an aunt. But they have no aunts. Katerina is an only child.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask Katerina quietly.
‘That’s Jamil. She’s helps me look after them.’
That surprises me, as does the name. It’s Eastern. But their love of her is unmistakable. Two of them hold her hands, and the other two press close as they come round, approaching our table. Yet as her face comes into view, I have a moment’s confusion so profound that for a moment I am certain that I must be dreaming, for I last saw this woman – this Jamil – naked on a bed in Baturin, three hundred and fifty years in the future.
I stand, watching as they bring her to me.
She smiles, a shy, almost embarrassed smile, then bows her head. ‘Meister …’
‘You have a twin,’ I say, as she straightens. ‘Someone I met on my travels.’
Even in the half-light, I see the shock in her eyes, the way the blood drains from her face, and then she looks down. When she looks at me again her eyes are moist. ‘I had a twin, but she was taken from us – abducted – when I was just eight years old.’
I don’t know whether to believe her or not, but if she’s lying she’s a superb actress. For a moment I think of Old Schnorr and repeated faces, and ask myself whether this could just be a coincidence, yet the more I think about it, the more certain I am that she’s a time agent – a Russian – and know that I need to jump out of there just as soon as I possibly can.
To check up on her. To make certain I’m not just being paranoid about this. Because the likelihood of her being in both places by chance is almost zero.
Twins … I don’t believe she ever had a twin.
‘Forgive me,’ I say, addressing those about me. ‘I need to take a pee.’
And without another word I stride off towards the trees.
248
Hecht is busy, so I leave matters in the more than capable hands of Zarah, who promises she will give me my answer, and tells me how and where I’ll find it. And so, less than a minute after I’ve left the table, I return.
Jamil has taken a seat beside my father-in-law. As I sit again, she looks at me strangely, wondering, no doubt, just what’s going on in my head.
Reaching beneath the table, I find the envelope exactly where Zarah said I’d find it, placed there that afternoon by one of our agents, long before the feast began.
I open it and slip the single sheet of paper out.
Katerina is looking at me, her eyes narrowed. ‘Otto …?’
Finished reading, I fold the note and slip it into my pocket, then reach across and, lifting my beer mug, stand to make a toast. ‘To Cherdiechnost!’
The toast is echoed with a great roar from every side. ‘To Cherdiechnost!’
Jamil is quiet, however, and when I go round the table and crouch beside her, she almost flinches.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to waken any ghosts, only I really did see someone, so like you as to be …’
She looks at me, her dark eyes the same as her twin’s, and yet so different, so free of any subterfuge. ‘Where was this?’
‘Baturin,’ I say. ‘Down south. Among the nomads. She … she worked in an inn there.’
‘And you think it was her?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Only …’ I sigh, then look away, struck by the impossibility of explaining the situation to her. Because from what we’ve learned, Jamil did have a twin, and she was abducted from her village when the two girls were eight. Only from there the trail goes cold. The girl simply disappeared. Until, well, the rest you know. Our two agents and the whore and—
I’m surprised that I hadn’t guessed that she too was an agent. Only why should I? What single clue did I have? Nor did it ever occur to me that one of theirs would play the whore. But then, why not?
Jamil is staring at me. ‘Meister, do you think I could find her? Do you think—’
I interrupt. ‘Baturin is a long way from here, Jamil. A woman travelling alone, it would not be safe. Besides, I don’t think she’s there any more. When I went back to look for her, she’d gone.’
The look of disappointment – of dismay – on Jamil’s face, almost makes me relent. Only there really is no point in her travelling to Baturin, for even if she made it there safely, her twin would not be there.
‘Couldn’t we send someone? To try and find her? I have money, I—’
I gently take her hands. ‘Jamil, I wish I’d never said a word, only when I saw you …’ I harden my tone the slightest bit. ‘Your sister is lost. Accept that. You could search for her the rest of your life and never find her.’
‘But you found her. And you weren’t even looking.’
It’s hard to argue with that. Harder still to hold her hands, and look into her pleading eyes and tell her no. And so I compromise.
‘Look. This is what I’ll do. Next time I travel south, I’ll look for her. I’ll ask in every town I visit. Now that I know …’
Gratitude shines in her eyes. Without warning, she kisses me full upon the lips, and for the briefest moment, I have a vision of her twin, lying there on the bed in Baturin, naked in the candlelight, her every charm displayed.
Flustered, I move back away from her, relinquishing my hands. ‘Jamil, I—’
She flushes with embarrassment. ‘Oh, Meister, I’m so sorry, only … you made me so happy. The thought of my twin sister …’
I sigh, knowing now for certain that nothing but sorrow can come of this, and rue having said a
single word to her.
As I sit down again, Katerina leans close, speaking quietly to my ear. ‘What was that, Otto?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, though the fact that Jamil’s twin has vanished from the time-stream is a mystery that neither Zarah nor our agents can explain. ‘Nothing at all.’
249
That night, in bed, I turn to her and ask, ‘What do you know, Katya? When I’ve been here before, what have I said?’
In the soft glow of the candle, her face changes, becoming suddenly defensive. ‘You told me not to tell you. You told me that an evening would come when you would ask, and that however much I was tempted, I was never – and you made me swear it on our children’s lives – never to tell you a single detail of anything that had happened outside the boundaries of this time and place. I was not to say anything about … your travels.’
‘I told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I guess I had good reason.’
‘You did.’
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘I do. I even know why. But I’m not to say. If I did, well, it would change things. You wouldn’t do what you have to do. And if you didn’t …’
‘Whoa, hold fire there. If I told you, that’s enough.’
But I sense now that there’s a shadow behind everything I do and say. That it’s all prefigured somehow, set hard into some complex, closely interwoven loop. Only I can’t even ask her that, for if I do things will change. And not, from Katerina’s hints, for the good.
Then why is she suddenly so sad? Why are her eyes filled now with sudden tears?
‘Katya?’
But she doesn’t answer, simply douses the candle and pulls me down beside her, making me hold her as she trembles in my arms.
250
The next morning we set up a trestle table outside the front door of the dacha, and wait as the villagers assemble from all over the estate. Every bol’shak, or head of household, is gathered, along with those craftsmen who were recruited in the last six months and are as yet unmarried. They wait patiently in a long line, conversing cheerfully in the spring sunlight, as Pavlenko checks each of the cloth packets for a second time.
The Ocean of Time Page 29
