‘Why not?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Might do. If you’re a counter-revolutionary, or—’
‘Me – counter-revolutionary!’
‘Well, then…’
‘Can I trust you? Explain it to you in strict confidence?’
‘Depends on what you’re going to tell me.’
‘We’re on our way to Moscow, with a report to deliver that’s far from complimentary to certain members of the Cheka. Or to the basic principles of Cheka methods and objectives. Because – in a nutshell – they’re working against us… There’s been a counter-revolution, you see – a coup – down in the south, in the Persian border area, and it was Cheka methods that caused it. Nine of my comrades were hanged – by the counter-revolutionaries – and I’d have been the next, if this man hadn’t got me away. He’s Persian, incidentally. But d’you see the spot I’m in? How can I tell this to the Cheka?’
‘Tell ’em something else, then.’
‘Lying to them doesn’t usually get much farther than having your fingernails pulled out, does it?’
The sun was edging down. Blazing off the water, and hot even in that reflection. Blinding… Bob thinking that the Count’s story wasn’t at all a bad one, in the present circumstances. Who could have come up with a yarn like that one just on the spur of the moment?
Well – he could, probably.
He was leaning forward: adopting a position virtually of supplication… ‘Can you think of any way I might get a message to her at the Dacha?’ Huge arms pumping away like pistons. Fast, powerful strokes, opposing the Volga’s strength. He grunted: his eyes contemplative, resting on the Count… ‘I’ll think about it. Leave me to row now.’
* * *
They’d turned on to the upstream leg at about a quarter to five, and it took the old man two solid hours of hard pulling to get up to the junction with the main channel. He hadn’t missed a stroke since making the hairpin turn down there. Now, driving his boat around the point, the land on the boat’s port side, the rower’s right – he allowed his right arm its first rest in two hours, while giving two strong strokes with the other. Emitting a grunt – satisfaction, relief – as the boat spun, turning its bow downstream.
Bob said – the first words he’d spoken in hours – ‘Congratulations. You’re a fine oarsman.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I’m a seaman.’
‘Are you, now…’
Resting on his oars, gazing at him. The sun was colouring the western sky, blackening the land, silhouetting the top of the levee that supported the riverside road – all the way down to Astrakhan, Bob guessed – as flat-topped as a stone wall, jet-black against that brilliance… The old man pointed that way with his jaw: ‘Four miles downstream from here. One hour. Still be daylight when we get there. Not bad, though I say it myself.’
The Count agreed: ‘I’m no seaman, but I’m impressed.’
‘Well. It can help, to have your mind busy. You don’t notice the work so much. I’ve been pondering your problem, comrade.’
‘Yes?’
‘I have a grandson. Andrei. Nine years old. Fine little lad, tough as old boots. Has a passion for raspberries.’
Silence. The last word – malini – hanging in the air… The Count laughed, snapped his fingers: ‘Right!’ A glance round at Bob: ‘We always had wonderful raspberries at Riibach—’
He’d stopped dead. Open-mouthed: horror dawning. Old Mesyats resting on his oars, letting the current carry them along as he leant forward, peering at point-blank range into the Count’s bearded face and shielding his own eyes against the blaze of the lowering sun.
Sitting back, then. Giant’s hands resting on wide, bony knees, the oars trailing from leather strops that held them loosely to the pins. Sounds of the river, and the boat’s timbers creaking…
‘By all the saints. By all the saints in heaven, sir, you must be raving mad!’
9
Enotayevsk had a high stone-faced quay with room for the river steamers to berth on it, and stone steps leading down to a landing-stage for small boats. It was a long flight of steps because of the height of the land at this point, which of course explained the village having been sited here, connected to other villages by the levee road.
The land was black and silver now. Half an hour ago, when they’d been passing a smaller waterside village, the sky behind it had been scarlet. The Count had made some comment on the dramatic quality of the scene, and old Mesyats had growled, ‘Reminds me… Can you guess why they’ve changed the name of your house from Riibachnaya to Krasnaya?’
‘Red’s the colour of the revolution, isn’t it?’
‘That’s not the reason. Fact is, it was the village people began calling it Krasnaya Dacha. Red being the colour of blood, that’s why.’
‘Blood…’ A pause. Splash of the oars’ blades, and the regular thudding of their looms against the pins. Even the droplets flying from the blades were pink. The Count asked him, ‘So what happened?’
‘There were eleven officers recuperating from wounds in that house of yours, and a doctor and two nurses looking after them. I’m talking about October last.’
‘I can guess now…’
‘Doesn’t take much doing, does it? Seeing as it was the pattern all over – according to what one hears… But this crowd – thirty or forty comrades, they say – came up from Astrakhan by boat. A little steamer, it’s still there, some rich man’s toy before this, the Cheka have it now… Well, there’d have been some of ’em in that mob, I dare say. And what they did was – look, this isn’t a nice story…’
‘Go on.’
‘As you wish. At least no kin of yours were there… Isn’t there a staircase that leads up to a gallery – musicians’ gallery, is it? Looking down on your dining-hall?’
‘Not my dining-hall exactly. But – yes.’
‘So. What they did was they hung the officers by their feet – ropes tied to the ankles and then led round a gallery balustrade – if that’s what you call it – so they could hoist ’em up like you’d hoist so many pigs. Then – taking their time about it, so each man had notice of what was coming to him – and setting out buckets below to catch the blood, d’you see – they slashed these fellows’ throats, one by one. But of course the buckets—’
‘May God have mercy…’
‘Well, one mercy for you is none of it could’ve been Solovyev blood.’
‘Disappointing for them.’
‘Perhaps. As I said, they weren’t local men, what they’d come for was those officers. And as far as any of us knew, there wasn’t even one of you still alive. Unless your mother was with – a certain person… But not even Maroussia, she can’t know, whatever news we’d get would be from her, d’you see, so it’s clearly her belief you’ve all been – taken… You had an older brother – Count Vladimir?’
‘He was killed in March ’16.’
‘God rest him… And a sister?’
‘She was in Petrograd. No word from her or of her, so…’
‘I’m very sorry. Except – as far as your brother’s concerned, much better killed in action than…’ He’d paused. An heroic, dramatic figure against that blood-red sunset. Too dramatic and the colour too apposite, Bob thought – watching them and listening, telling himself It could be some dreadful nightmare tale, and this setting specially chosen for its telling, but it’s the truth, it happened… The old man was telling Nick, ‘The doctor and the nurses got the same treatment. Except the nurses – well, you can imagine, before they hung them up…’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I’m sorry. I warned you it wasn’t – pretty… But there’s a practical reason you should know about it – on account of poor Maroussia. She was called in to mop up, the day after, and she was still at it the week after, so people say… Old Ivan was dead by then, she was alone, and – it changed her. So I’m told. Haven’t seen her myself, you see – well, I said, didn’t I… But if it h
appens that you do see her – as well to be prepared…’
* * *
Approaching the quay at Enotayevsk, Mesyats pointed. ‘The Swede’s place is through there. There’s an alley leads through, and where it gets to the road beyond those houses you’ll find it on your left.’
‘And we’ll wait there until—’
‘Until you get tired of waiting.’ Shipping his oars, shifting round on the thwart to face the landing-stage as they glided in towards it. Getting there, Bob climbed out and took the painter to an eye-bolt.
‘This one?’
‘Good as any.’ There were about a dozen other boats there. The old man told the Count, ‘Remember, now. She’ll get the message – if she’s there to be given it – but then it’s up to her what she does about it. If anything. You won’t see the boy, and you won’t see me again if I can help it.’
‘Understood. But I want to say this, Leonid Timofeevich—’
‘Better not, sir. There’s no – sentiment.’
‘What is there, then?’
‘An old fool, that’s all. And be warned – if my own kith and kin were endangered…’
‘You’d inform on us.’
‘Without thinking twice. Where’s the sentiment in that?’
‘In the fact that actions speak louder than words, batushka.’
‘All right – so you can repay the favour…’
‘By sodding off.’
‘Vanishing. Please…’
* * *
The Swede’s tavern – Shvedski traktir – was a long, narrow room entered directly from the road and containing four long tables with benches, and at one end of the room a stove big enough for a family of six to sleep on. In winter, of course. The Swede himself, Torkel Rasmussen, was a man in his late forties – smallish, with greying temples to his blond hair and grey streaks in his beard, and watery blue eyes. He’d been in Russia twelve years now, he told them, having come originally to set up a caviar-exporting business. The war had interrupted that, but in the interim he’d married a local girl and didn’t want to leave, so he’d turned this place into a pub and – he explained – was hoping, please God, to be allowed to continue with it and also relaunch his caviar business before long.
‘When things are settling down a little, huh?’
‘Will it be allowed?’
A wide, white smile: ‘Which?’
‘Either.’
‘I think. Because I am foreign. Also to bring in money. All right, maybe for the caviar we have a co-operative, some sort. But soon, I hope.’
‘Well – good luck, comrade. There’s certainly no doubt we’re winning.’
‘Oh – I’m sure. Are you comrades – passing through?’
‘On our way to Moscow. But an aunt of mine used to live somewhere around here, we’ve stopped off to see if I can find her.’
‘What is this lady’s name, please?’
‘Vetrova. Lizaveta.’
‘No. No, I don’t believe—’
‘I’ve put certain enquiries in hand, we may have some news brought to us here later. If not, can we sleep here?’
‘Of course.’ He gestured: meaning sleep anywhere, just stretch out. They still didn’t have beds in a lot of places of this kind. That toothy grin again: ‘Not grande luxe, but…’
‘Fine. Now, some food, and beer?’
Fresh fish, baked in that stove, and turnip. And the Swede’s beer wasn’t bad. There were between a dozen and twenty other customers. Most of them were fishermen, the Swede had said. ‘With money in their pockets – for a day or two, huh?’
The Count murmured, when he’d left them, ‘The Bolsheviks won’t allow private businesses to continue for long in areas they control. And the caviar’d certainly be State-owned, if they had the power. He must know that.’
‘So he must be reckoning on your lot winning.’
‘I suppose so. And when one hears stories of the kind we heard this evening – surely God can’t allow such filth to prevail.’ He shut his eyes. ‘Christ…’
‘I know. I feel the same. But here and now, Nick…’
‘We can only wait for Maroussia. Yes. And keep our voices down. You’re quite right.’
‘Also keep in mind that it was back in October they perpetrated that horror. When they were all really running mad. Well, weren’t they – everywhere? Getting on for a year ago. And we know your mother and the others were with Maroussia when she sent you the message – just over three months ago, so—’
‘So what?’
‘Well – in detail, God knows, but—’
‘Exactly. God knows. Anything…’
‘What’ll we do if Maroussia doesn’t respond?’
That, in the immediate situation, was the biggest and least answerable question. What to do if Maroussia got the message that the Count was here, and ignored it. Or wasn’t able to respond to it, because of her own situation… Bob thought that if this proved to be the case, and if he personally had then to make the decision, it would be to cut and run. Rather than throw away two more lives – get out, now.
That would be the logical, sane decision; and Leonid Timofeevich Mesyats would have agreed. But the Count wouldn’t. He’d be outraged at the mere suggestion.
Understandably. His own flesh and blood, and the girl he loved…
‘Krasnaya Dacha… To think that in the house where we spent such happy, carefree times – even in that big staircase hall, children’s games…’
‘Same must apply all over. In hundreds of homes, Nick. Thousands, even… Mesyats was right, it’s been the pattern. You’ll have heard about the Black Sea fleet mutineers, what they did to their officers – marching them off a jetty in chains with weights on them, and cracking their skulls under the lid of a grand piano in the sailors’ club. It’s the same… syndrome. Peasant bestiality. Not to mention the more deliberate brutality, all the poor wretches the Cheka have tortured to death or shot in the back of the head. It’s a fact of these times, Nick – what I’m saying is this particular horror was perpetrated in your house, but – look, that was just one more drop in an ocean of blood, you should put it out of your mind just as you do with the other stories. As the old man pointed out, your family weren’t there, thank God, so—’
‘Yes. Thank God.’
‘I’ll admit there’s one aspect of it I can’t reconcile in my mind – the idea of a house in which the Cheka have set up shop, and in the same place—’ he dropped his voice even further – ‘two of the Tsar’s daughters. That really does seem – so utterly incongruous.’
‘Well, I—’
He’d started, then checked himself. Retreating into his own thoughts – fears, visions, whatever… Hands flat on the table, and staring down at them. It was a habit of his, Bob had noticed more than once, that when he didn’t want to look someone in the eyes he picked another object on which to focus his attention. Instead of just looking away, he looked at something.
And here and now, anyway – in his shoes…
But in anyone’s, Bob thought, who had any depth of feeling for this country. The Count shook his head: ‘No more impossible, though, than that the others should be there. My mother, Irina, Nadia.’
‘I suppose not.’
Sipping at his beer. Struggling to shut out awareness of the surrounding nightmare: shut his mind to it, concentrate not on the wood but on the trees – on the problems that had been nagging away in his own thoughts for two days and nights – how to get away from here, with or without the women: to get even the beginnings of a plan…
‘Except for one thing.’ The Count nodded slowly as he spoke. ‘One thing I haven’t mentioned. It may not make all that much difference, but…’
‘What are you talking about?’
The green eyes dropped again.
‘Bob, I think at this time I won’t talk about it. If you don’t mind. If it came to the very worst – if for instance you and I were arrested – well, the knowledge wouldn’t be any use to you here and now
– and if all goes well you’ll see for yourself quite soon – so really there’s no point – burdening you, with—’
‘I agree.’ He nodded. ‘Whatever the deuce it is you’re talking about… But incidentally, another thing you never told me was that you had a brother.’
‘Vladimir. Three years older than me. He was killed in the fighting around Lake Narocz – in March ’16, that was. You know where – on the Polish border? It was a very costly attack. We launched it primarily to take German and Austrian pressure off the French, who were in bad trouble at Verdun. Vlad was one of a whole list of good men killed.’
‘Where were you at that time?’
‘In the south-west. Brusilov’s front. We were up against the Austrian Seventh Army, in the Bukovina. We smashed them, you know. And this was by way of helping the Italians – they’d begged us to do something to stop the Austrians reinforcing their Trentino front.’ He shrugged. ‘When you reckon it all up, I’d say we weren’t so bad, while we were in it. Considering how inadequate our equipment was, and the supply problems.’
‘Like shells that didn’t fit the guns, we heard.’
He nodded. ‘Must be quite a joke – if you don’t happen to be there at the time.’ He began nibbling at a thumbnail. ‘I wonder how long we’re going to have to wait here, Bob.’
‘Well.’ Glancing over at some men who were playing dominoes – slamming the pieces down, crashes like gunshots over the growl of conversation… ‘Might pass some time with a game – if the Swede has another set?’
‘I don’t think so. Unless you particularly—’
‘No. I’m easy. But – could be hours, you know. Could be all night – and that wouldn’t necessarily mean she isn’t coming. We don’t know what circumstances apply out at the house, when she can or can’t get away, or—’
‘I know. I know.’ Hands flat on the table again: in an effort not to bite his nails, perhaps… ‘Unfortunately, patience is one of the virtues I don’t have in abundance.’
Bloody Sunset Page 16
