Volga, rooskaya reka!
Nye vidal reku takuyu—
A man’s commanding shout, from somewhere up ahead: ‘Stoi!’
‘Whoa-up. Whoa-up there, damn creature…’
Slowing, stopping.
‘You’re in great voice tonight, babushka.’
‘My Ivan used to say I had a lovely voice. God rest his fine old soul… What’s up, what d’you want?’
The cart rocked as the guard leant his weight against it, leaning over the top to get at the sack. Bob crouching on the stinking boards, thinking of the cost to date of the Count’s single-minded devotion to his loved ones – two lives already lost, and a good chance he mightn’t have much of a lease left on his own.
10
Lease of life of about thirty seconds at the outside, he’d reckoned at that moment…
The sentry had begun wrenching at the sack, dragging it towards his side of the cart, which was tilting that way under his weight as he leant over. If the sack had rolled on to the Count, there’d have been an instant investigation into what the obstruction might be.
‘Turnips?’ He’d got the sack open, evidently. ‘Strange time of night for buying turnips, babushka?’
‘Didn’t buy ’em. Present. He’d promised, so I thought I’d get ’em before he changed his mind. Free sack of turnips is a free sack of turnips – eh?’
‘Was when I was a boy.’ The sack slumped back into the middle, and the cart levelled as that weight came off it. Sound of a heavy spit… ‘Get along to bed then, granny…’
It must have been about five hundred yards, Bob guessed, from the guardpost to the house – or stables. Several things in mind, meanwhile, most notable among them being the Count’s trickery that had fooled two generals – three, if Bicherakov was calling himself a general now – and one commodore and of course one’s own dim-witted self. Because one had smelt some rat: and turned a blind eye…
Should have raised it with the Commodore. But raised what? Without even being sure there was any damn rat! Rat with green eyes…
Justifiable – conceivable – from his point of view? Putting oneself in his place: and searching for a parallel… Suppose for instance it had been the old man – one’s father – who’d been trapped here but potentially within the scope of rescue…
Motive enough?
Maybe. One wouldn’t have had either the natural duplicity to have thought of it, or the sheer nerve to have put it into action. But apart from these factors, amounting to basic differences between Nikolai Solovyev’s temperament and one’s own, wouldn’t there have been some sense of shame in not doing anything that could be done?
It was spilt milk now, anyway. Having been lured in, one had to accept the fact that one was in the trap, concentrate on getting out of it.
The iron wheel-rims were on cobbles suddenly, the clatter deafening in this enclosed space. Taking a corner: he could feel it, and hear wheels and hooves slither on the stone, the old woman’s voice calling sharply ‘Hold up, stupid, hold up…’
There’d be only two girls to take along, now. That was something. Sad – tragic – but – less downright impossible than five, surely. But the move – some move – had to be made now: the old fisherman had been dead right when he’d told Maroussia Send ’em on their way damn quick. Delay would be tempting fate: lying up here for one day had to involve a certain quotient of danger, extending it to two must double that quotient.
‘Whoa-up. Easy – whoa-up, old dear!’
Speaking nicely to the animal now… Clattering to a stop. The Count hadn’t stirred and Bob took his cue from him, continued to lie still and listen, wait… Aware of the embryonic formation of some idea – or ideas, two in conjunction – in the back of his mind, but unable to concentrate on it for the moment…
Maroussia’s voice again: ‘Ah, there you are, child!’
‘Just a minute…’ Female voice: young, low, rather pleasant – as much as there’d been of it. Long creak of a hinge or hinges, heavy-sounding, and the same voice again, is it true, Tyotka dorogaya? Have you got them there?’
A grunt from the old woman. Slap of reins on the donkey’s rump. Tyotka meaning aunt, that would have been Nadia, Nick’s fiancée who was currently posing as Maroussia’s niece. The cart rolled forward: stopped again. Maroussia called, ‘Shut the doors, will you… But listen, Nadia, golubka…’
‘Yes?’
A passing thought that maybe they were all natural tricksters, these people… Maroussia was telling her, ‘It’s not your brother I’ve got here. You’re going to have to be brave, my darling…’
* * *
‘Who are you?’
Irina stared at him. Lamplight between them, from the oil-lamp she was holding. Another lamp – on a step there – threw a pool of light around the foot of a flight of stairs that climbed the inner wall of this high-roofed coachhouse. Yellowish lamplight and moving shadows patterning its cobbled floor, the back wall stacked with bales of hay, dark at the top where no light reached. Irina had only appeared after the other girl, Nadia, had dragged the heavy timber door shut. By that time Bob had been climbing out of the cart and the Count was already out – embracing his sister and this tall, dark girl more or less simultaneously, as that one came running from the door… ‘Oh, Nikki darling…’
‘Nadia, my sweet…’
‘Quiet!’
Maroussia – a gnarled forefinger to her bloodless lips. The Count nodding to her apologetically, and getting the worst over quickly, telling them about Boris; Bob feeling like an intruder, trying to act blind and deaf. The Count answering his sister’s question then, over Nadia’s shoulder – Nadia crying quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks – ‘Friend of mine – good friend. I’ll introduce you in a minute. Irina, dearest – Maroussia told me about our mother – only three weeks ago?’
Irina blinking at him: tears in her eyes too… ‘It’s been – oh God, Nikki, it’s been dreadful, you can’t imagine…’
Maroussia cut in again. She’d been unharnessing her donkey but she left it now, went over and pulled at the Count’s arm: ‘Nikolai Petrovich – please – we’re in danger here. Take them with you into the Hole. My darlings – all of you, please…’
‘Yes. Of course—’
‘And even in there, keep your voices down, for God’s sake… I’ll just give this animal a drink, and turn him out. Go on, now.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Bob went over to her. ‘Join you presently, Nick.’
‘Very well.’ The Count nodded, and Irina smiled at him. Appreciating that he was giving them a few minutes to themselves, maybe. She bore a distinct resemblance to her brother, he thought. Even to the extravagance of green eyes: not that one could be sure of it in this light. But certainly the same kind of wavy brown hair and the same nose and forehead. Actually she looked a bit like a cat: which despite the family resemblance he hadn’t noticed in her brother. They were moving away, their arms around each other, towards the back of the coachhouse where the hay was stacked: Bob asked Maroussia, ‘Is that where this Hole is?’
‘Yes. Used to be for ice. Filled in the winter, lasted right through summer.’
‘For storing food – fish and—’
‘Now there’s a lot of stuff from the house down there. My Ivan hauled it over – before things got really bad. Heavy chests, Lord knows what – it’s what killed him – did his heart in.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Yes… Look – sir – kind of you to offer, but I can do this with my eyes shut. Almost do it for himself, this rogue… Although – well, since you’re at it – if you’d mind filling that bucket – tap’s in there…’
Through a small door, in a lean-to – wooden-walled, doubtless an addition tagged on in comparatively recent years – there was an iron cooking-stove and a wooden tub, above which was the tap, and another door led into a lavatory. Maroussia said when he came back with the filled bucket, ‘Best to whisper. See, if one of ’em was prowling…’
/>
‘Do they prowl?’
‘Oh yes. And see, might hear a man’s voice in here…’
‘Right.’ The donkey was out of its harness; he pulled the cart back out of the way, up against an old dinghy that was propped on its beam-ends against the wall – about the size of old Mesyat’s boat but a wreck, with some strakes missing and the rest rotten, crumbling. Firewood. He came back to her, patted the donkey’s neck: ‘Does this fellow get some hay now?’
‘No, he does not. Much as he’d like it. There’s plenty of grass out there for him, hay’s for the winter. The place is walled and fenced, see, I let him wander… D’you expect you’ll be here long?’
‘We mustn’t be. Sooner we clear out, the safer for all of us – including you.’
‘So be it.’ In precise translation from the Russian what she’d said was What will be, let it be… Gazing at him out of small brown eyes, round like a monkey’s. Her face was a bit like a monkey’s, too. She whispered, ‘How I’m going to miss my darlings.’
They were facing each other, one each side of the donkey’s head as he finished drinking. Lifting his dripping muzzle: big, soulful eyes glowing with reflected lamplight, gazing at his mistress almost as if he’d understood what she was feeling and felt sorry for her. As Bob did – recognizing, despite the old woman’s stoic self-control, her barely-concealed despair at the prospect of being left alone.
He suggested: ‘You could come with us?’
‘Oh, bless you, no… Thank you sir, but—’
‘So when we go – taking Nadia, whom they believe to be your niece – what happens to you?’
A shrug. ‘I – stay here. Live – work…’
‘But they’ll know you must have known she was going, and where and how. So you’ll be in trouble.’
‘I don’t believe so. They know I’m not right in the head, you see. And I’ll be beside myself with grief. Easy performance, that, I will be… I’ll be angry, too, I’ll want to know what they’ve done with her, I’ll make a great song and dance… Well, I’m potty, aren’t I, I’m not responsible… Now if you’d open that door – just pull it back a little, don’t show yourself – we’ll let this old merzavets out, eh?’
* * *
He had the impression, in his first minute after he’d joined them in the Hole, that something had gone wrong – some constraint between them now… The Count tight-lipped, tight-faced inside his beard, eyes hard, resentful… Nadia seemingly tense – watching him rather like a nurse with a patient who might be in imminent danger of relapse – and Irina more catlike than ever, her eyes definitely feline… Then he’d arrived in their pool of lamplight – having come down brick steps from a trapdoor behind the hay bales – found them sitting on some old mattresses, an oil lamp throwing shadows that moved weirdly on the curve of brick walls and roof as Nick climbed to his feet, welcoming him, and the girls, no less welcoming, moved to make room for him. Whatever had been the problem, it wasn’t any of his business.
Odd time to start quarrelling, though… He was looking around, having to stoop under the low, arched roof. ‘Must have taken a hell of a lot of ice, to fill this.’
‘Dates from the Stukalins’ time. I told you, remember?’ Pointing into the dark behind him, the stack of furniture and packing-cases. ‘Maroussia’s husband moved all this stuff over, Irina’s been telling me, soon after the start of the revolution, when the house was still a hospital. It was stored in rooms they weren’t using. They should have got out while they could – but I suppose they had nowhere to go – and some couldn’t anyway. And he was pretty frail himself by that time, Maroussia thinks it’s what finished him.’
‘She told me.’ Bob nodded. ‘And presumably they – Cheka and others – don’t know there is a cellar here.’
‘Thank God… What’s Maroussia doing now, d’you know?’
‘She was going to make us some tea. But did she say about Czech prisoners in the house?’
Irina told him, in cells that were our old storerooms.’ Glancing at her brother. ‘Our house, Nikki, for God’s sake. The cellar – the wine cellar – that’s where the Cheka—’ she crossed herself, shutting her eyes – ‘Nikki, you can’t imagine…’
‘The wine cellar—’ Nadia said quietly – ‘is where they conduct their interrogations.’
‘You mean—’ the Count was staring at her – ‘torture?’
‘Possibly.’ She shrugged. ‘Or – probably…’ Reacting to his stare, then, she flared suddenly: ‘Not in my presence, if that’s what’s in your—’
‘Please…’
She’d glanced at Bob. Back at her fiancé now. ‘I’m not in their confidence, Nikki. I do the work I’m given, but I’m no part of their damned—’
‘But you’re on good terms with this fellow?’
‘I don’t spit at him when I see him – I’m not stupid, or suicidal. And what’s more, Irina’s and Maroussia’s safe existence here – your mother’s, for that matter, while she lived…’
‘Yes – yes, I – I dare say…’ Staring at her: as if she’d shocked him… Then he turned back to Bob. ‘This cellar – Grigor Stukalin built it. It’s said – I’d forgotten – they used it as a hiding-place even in those days. Now history repeats itself. Amazing…’
Irina leaned across, put a hand on his arm: ‘Remember the games we used to play – when Vlad would be Pugachov, and you and I—’
‘Yes. Yes…’
Bob broke a silence: ‘The Czechs they’ve got locked up over there must be from the Czech Legion, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’ Nadia told him, ‘They were trying to get away through the Bolshevik lines, but some Kirghizi caught them—’
‘And handed them over—’ the Count cut in – ‘to your Cheka friends, huh?’
Bob looked from her to her fiancé… ‘Hardly friends, surely?’
‘I work for them. For the head one, a man named Viktor Lesechko. For the sole reason, Nikki, that I had no option. I have my own little room to work in, and I work for him only.’
Irina murmured, ‘Nights too, sometimes.’
Nadia’s eyes flashed at her: ‘When they work at night – damn you, Irina—’
‘Please.’ The Count interrupted… ‘Bob doesn’t want to hear this – squabbling… Especially as we’ve enough important things to talk about. Although – well, really, it might be more sensible to get some sleep and talk in the morning.’ He looked at Nadia. ‘But I suppose you’ll be—’ he moved his head – ‘with them all day.’
‘You suppose wrongly, Nikolai Petrovich. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and even with them, strangely enough, Sunday’s still a day of rest.’
‘Well, that’s – convenient. And we can sleep late. All right, then…’ He nodded: leaving that subject, but with a glance at Nadia which suggested she hadn’t heard the last of it… ‘Bob, may I introduce you properly, tell them who you are?’
‘I don’t know why you shouldn’t.’
‘Only that if things went wrong – if you or any of us were caught—’
‘I’d tell them anyway. Long before they got me into their cellar.’
Nobody else smiled. If it had been a joke at all, it hadn’t been in good taste.
‘So – all right. With your permission, Bob…’ The Count said, rather formally, ‘I’d like to present to you Lieutenant Robert Cowan, of His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy.’
‘Royal Naval Reserve, to be exact.’
He shrugged, and told his sister, ‘What matters is that it’s entirely through his help that I’ve been able to get here.’
Irina had clapped her hands. ‘British navy – here! And speaking such good Russian! Lieutenant, we’re honoured – as well as extremely grateful—’
‘Lieutenant…’
He turned to Nadia. ‘Princess?’
‘Having brought Nikki to us, are you now going to take us away with you?’
Reclining on the mattress: long-bodied and long-legged, attractive in an unobvious sort of way. Wide-spaced
grey eyes, straight nose, and a full, appealing mouth. Dark, very soft-looking hair. He’d noticed earlier that even in heel-less slippers she was within about an inch of his own height. He told her – leaving her question unanswered for the moment – ‘Believe it or not, I never met a princess before.’
The Count said rather brusquely, ‘Although you lived in Petrograd – which used to be fairly littered with them?’
‘I left when I was twelve, Nick. Maybe I played with a child princess or two, but—’
‘Anyway – don’t blame me.’ Nadia shrugged. ‘My father was a prince, that’s all. For which crime incidentally he and my mother were literally torn to pieces.’ She glanced at the Count. ‘And you’re mad enough to imagine I could – what, like one of them?’ Staring at each other: then he’d looked away, and she asked him, ‘How come the Royal Navy brought you, anyway?’
‘That’s – a long story…’
Bob cut in – to help him out, as much as anything – ‘Part of the answer – to your other question as well, Princess, is that the boat we came in hit a mine. Nick saved my life – literally, I was in the water, unconscious and drowning, and he found me, pulled me out and pumped me dry. The unfortunate thing is that the same boat would have come back to pick you up – when Nick got you down to the coast, you see. But as the boat is now matchwood, and my own people don’t even know any of us survived – and we’ve no way of contacting them – well, we have a problem.’
‘But – you’ll find a way round it, will you?’
‘With a bit of help – yes. Got to, haven’t we.’ He looked at the Count. ‘On that rather important subject, Nick, I’ve had what might be the beginnings of an idea. Depending on the outcome of some reconnaissance I need to do. Although there’s one question Maroussia might answer, for a start.’
‘D’you want to discuss it tonight?’
‘I’d like to, yes. Amongst other things.’ He looked for a reaction to that, and got it – almost a flinch… He added, ‘But of course, if the rest of you are tired…’
Bloody Sunset Page 18
