"What's the holdup?” Yakov said once he realized Galina wasn't following.
She pointed wordlessly, and Zemun looked up and laughed.
"That's Bayun,” she said. “Come down, cat, and tell us what you've seen."
The Cat Bayun descended from the tree in two graceful leaps. He turned out to be considerably smaller than a tiger, but much larger than a housecat-as big as a collie, Galina decided. He arched his striped back and yawned, his claws digging at the ground, as if plucking invisible guitar strings. His gaze never left Galina's, and his lip hitched up, exposing long sharp mother-of-pearl canines. “I haven't seen nothing,” he said in a husky, almost adolescent voice. “What are you looking for?"
Galina had heard about Bayun before, but she could not remember whether he was supposed to be good or evil. While Zemun explained the situation to him she tried to figure out whether she should be afraid of the strange talking cat-he seemed menacing. “Excuse me,” she whispered to Yakov. “Do you know anything about Bayun?"
"Not much,” he answered. “I think when he sings he can put you to sleep, and he is supposed to live in Thrice-Ninth Kingdom."
"He's also related to Scandinavian myth,” Koschey said. “His children are the two cats that pull Freya's chariot; at least, according to some sources."
"I hadn't realized Russian fairytales were related to other religions,” Yakov said.
Koschey laughed. “You're kidding, right? Most of Russia's pagan gods were borrowed from elsewhere-Scandinavia, Phoenicia, Greece, Egypt… you name it. There's very little original folklore here."
Galina thought it strange that mythological creatures were capable of discussing their own origins. But then again, why wouldn't they be? “Is it true that he can put people to sleep?” she asked Koschey.
He nodded, and picked up a robust, rust-colored leaf off the ground, twirled it between two fingers. “It is not just the sleeping,” he said, and smiled a wan smile. “It's the dreaming you should be interested in. He can make your dreams… worthwhile, to say the least."
* * * *
Koschey was right. Galina's dreams were unusually powerful and vivid, and as she dreamt she really believed that she was back home, in their small apartment, with grandmother in the kitchen doing something to the cabbage to make it smell. Their mother was at work, and Galina was getting ready to go to the night classes she'd been taking during her rare periods of lucidity. Masha was still in school then-she sat in the living room, oblivious to the blaring of the TV, her elbows propped on the windowsill, the open book in between them.
Galina felt guilty then, because she was a bad big sister-absent, distant, frail and unsure of what was real and what wasn't. She wanted so desperately to be there for Masha-so young, so pink, so brimming with health and hope. She wanted so badly to connect. “Homework?” Galina said.
Masha looked up from the book, her gaze momentarily snagging on something outside before turning to meet Galina's. “No, just reading."
"What?” she persisted, admiring the round contour of her sister's cheek. How old was she, anyway? Eleven, twelve? Something like that.
Masha consulted the cover. “Hamlet,” she said. “Do you know that one?"
Galina smiled. “Yes. How're you liking it?"
Masha made a thoughtful face. “They all speak in verse… but I do like it. Especially the part about forty thousand brothers… that's a lot of brothers, isn't it?"
Galina nodded. She understood the quiet awe in Masha's voice-none of the kids they knew had large families, and a girl was lucky to have a big brother. It was a generally accepted truth that brothers were better than sisters-they could be strong and protective, and they were the closest thing to a father for a girl who didn't have one. Big sisters were generally useless, because they moved out and had children, and couldn't protect one.
"You wish you had a brother, don't you?” Galina said.
Masha looked guilty for a moment, but then smiled. “I would like a boy to live with us. Wouldn't you?"
"Not really,” Galina said. “You're lucky you don't remember Dad."
Masha looked furtively toward the kitchen, but their grandmother remained there, ensconced in the sizzling of the vegetable oil, the clanging of the oven door and the smells of cabbage and fried onions. “Grandma is making pies,” Masha said. “Tell me about our father."
There wasn't anything new to tell, but this conversation had the comfort of familiarity about it. “He was a jerk,” Galina said.
"And a drunk,” Masha said with conviction.
"Not so much a drunk,” Galina said. “The neighbors said that Mom was crazy to let him go. Where else would you find a sober man, they said. But he just… he wasn't anything. I don't think he ever said a word to me. And Grandma hated him."
Masha nodded, smiling. “I guess it's good that there aren't any boys here then."
"If you say so."
"You'll be late for your school,” Masha said. “Why do you go to school at night?"
"It's evening college for those who work,” Galina said. “Like me. I can be late a little."
Masha gave her a penetrating look, modeled so perfectly off their mother's that Galina had to laugh. “You really have to be taking this more seriously,” Masha said. “If you keep on like this, you'll never have an education, and I'll probably be married before you."
"Of course you will.” Galina laughed still. “You're the one who wants boys in the house."
Masha shrugged. “Galka,” she said thoughtfully. “Would you rather be deaf or blind?"
Galina weighed her options. “Deaf, I suppose. What about you?"
"Blind,” Masha said. “This way, Mom will have no choice but let me get a dog."
"You have it planned out, I see,” Galina said. She looked at her watch and sighed. “I have to get going, I suppose. Don't go blind just yet; maybe we can talk Mom into getting you a puppy."
Masha beamed. “Thanks, Galka. You know what I really want? I mean, besides the puppy?"
Galina looked out of the window, and saw her bus pass by. There would be another one; she sat down on the couch and kicked off her shoes. “What do you really want?"
Masha stared at the passing bus. “I want to be someone else."
"Who?"
Masha shrugged. “I don't know. Not me."
Then there was guilt again; Galina couldn't stop feeling that it was her fault also. Who would want to be a girl with a crazy sister and no brothers or a father? Who would want to be a girl with such a severe mother and silently disapproving grandmother, who constantly cooked fried potatoes, pies, borsch that tasted of frustration and suppressed anger? Who would want to be a girl in a house filled with damaged women, and no hope of ever becoming something else herself?
"I'm sorry,” Galina said. “You know, things can change. It doesn't have to be this way forever."
Masha nodded. “Go,” she said. “I love you, as much as forty thousand brothers."
Then the scene changed-they were in a darkened room, with sooted wooden walls. Masha was older now, but her eyes still watched Galina with a hopeful expectation. “You'll help me, won't you?"
"I've been doing nothing else,” Galina said. “I'm here looking for you, with a stupid cow and Koschey the Deathless, while Mom is home with your baby."
Masha looked confused for a second. “A baby?"
Galina nodded. “But we'll talk about that later… in person. Now just tell me where you are."
"I'm in a castle,” she said. “Although it doesn't look like a castle, but they tell me Peter the Great used to live here."
"Who are they?” Galina tried to keep her voice steady.
Masha shrugged. “I don't know. There are several of them, or maybe just one and he wears a different face every day."
"What do they want with you?"
"I don't know. They keep us here and send us, always send us to look and tell them what we saw. They have so many birds, and we see every corner of above and below. They
take the images from our eyes and the memories from our heads, sounds from our ears and voices from our tongues… please come find me before we're all deaf and mute and blind."
* * * *
"Who has many faces and a castle?” Galina asked Zemun as soon as she woke up under Bayun's tree. Look at this, she thought; I'm talking in goddamn riddles. And I'm asking advice from a talking cow. And I talk to birds and cats. It's a good thing my schizophrenia is in remission.
"Hmmmm,” Zemun said. “Dvoedushnik, maybe. But who knows what other creatures lurk in this forest?"
"What do you mean?” Yakov interrupted. “I thought you all knew each other."
"Do you know every person in Moscow, or even in your neighborhood?” Timur-Bey countered. “When this place was formed, some chose to build a city. Others stayed in the forest. Didn't anyone tell you it's not safe here?"
"David did,” Yakov admitted. “He didn't say why."
"There's also something you might want to know,” Galina told Yakov. “Remember the house of Peter the Great in Kolomenskoe that Sergey mentioned? I dreamt that it was here, in this forest."
Sergey the rook hopped onto Galina's shoulder and peered into her face. “You mean to say that this forest is actually Kolomenskoe?"
"I don't think so,” Galina said. “But maybe there's a connection."
"Perhaps,” Koschey said. “I'm ashamed to say that I don't know anything here that belonged to any czars."
"I do,” Timur-Bey said. “And incidentally, that's not the same as the house in Kolomenskoe."
"How do you know that?” Zemun said.
"Because,” Timur-Bey said, “the one here ended up underground after its above version was burned by Napoleon."
Galina and Yakov traded looks. If one didn't think too hard about it, it almost made sense-Kolomenskoe and Peter the Great and the birds-but the moment one looked at the pieces directly they fell apart again, like bits of mosaic that formed a picture if looked at from a distance but a meaningless jumble up close.
Yakov apparently felt the same way-he shook his head and sighed. “Think we're getting closer?” he asked Galina.
She nodded. “I don't care about the puzzles,” she said. “I just want my sister back; you can have the rest."
Yakov produced an uncertain smile. “That sounds like a bargain,” he said.
14: Napoleon
The world used to make sense; Yakov remembered that much. And yet, here, underground, he couldn't avoid the thought that the apparent sense and order was just a result of his wistful optimism. It also occurred to him that the closer he found himself to evil, the harder it was to maintain the illusion of a sensible universe.
He resented the vague and abstract quality of evil-it was always in the plural, be it thugs or communists or Chechen terrorists. It was never a person with a face and a possibility of affixing blame, at least not after some time passed; only then could evil be identified and labeled as such, but who could believe something after so much time had passed? And after living underground and hearing the denizens’ stories he started to doubt that historians on the surface ever got the real meaning of anything.
Now, he felt lost among dreams and speculations, in a dark forest so big that the initially sprawling and overwhelming underground city became but a speck lost in a mosaic of trees-some frozen and leafless, others just starting to sprout their first sticky leaves: a patchwork of seasons and-Yakov suspected-times. And somewhere deep within the forest there was a palace of the czar who had abandoned Moscow for St Petersburg. And within this palace there were birds who used to be people but were now subjugated to some unknown but menacing enemies-numerous, faceless, like any other evil.
Timur-Bey led them, following landmarks only he could see; he sometimes stopped to look closely at a tree trunk or a patch of grass, or to rub the delicate skeleton of a fallen leaf between his small dry palms.
"What is he doing?” Yakov whispered to Galina. “What is he looking for?"
"I don't think he's looking for anything,” Galina whispered back. “I think he's praying."
"Praying? Who's here to pray to?” He heaved a sigh and fell silent, suddenly overtaken by the thought that here, underground, there was no one to hear his prayers. He was never particularly religious, despite his mother's efforts to make him go to church and to consider his soul. Still, there was a certainty that if he ever had the fancy to pray there would be someone to listen; at least his mother assured him that it was so. Here, there was instead the bleak knowledge that all the gods that had any power were dead, and he was instead at the mercy of strange creatures with unclear motives. It was no wonder then that he looked to Galina for support.
But she seemed preoccupied. Ever since the dreams of her sister started, she grew more distant and anxious by the day, as if a part of her strained ahead, leaving behind the rest that couldn't keep up. “It's like a bad dream,” she told Yakov. “You know the ones when you're trying to run but can't or only move very slowly?"
He nodded. “I think everyone has those."
"It's strange, isn't it,” Galina said. “It's not like anyone ever had an actual experience of running in molasses. I wonder where this dream comes from."
"Walking through mud,” Yakov said. “The place I used to live, there was so much mud, especially after the rains started. There was construction everywhere."
"Sounds like my neighborhood,” Galina said. “There used to be an apple orchard, and now it's just dirt and railroad."
"I remember,” Yakov said. “I'm just two streets down from you, by the supermarket and the liquor store."
"And the glass factory,” Galina said. “The one Sergey talked about. Isn't it strange, how we lived so close and yet never knew what was going on there, with thugs and magic?"
"I suppose. But isn't it even stranger that there's a whole damn world under our feet, and nobody knows about it?"
"Yeah,” Galina said, her forehead furrowing in the habitual pattern of narrow lines that were getting permanently entrenched in her smooth skin. “But someone has to know. The KGB probably does-how can they not?"
Yakov shrugged; he did not share Galina's conviction although he had encountered this particular belief many times-perfectly reasonable people often believed that the KGB was all-knowing, and ascribed to them a superhuman competence. It made it easier to swallow that way, he supposed; if the evil was all-knowing and all-powerful, one could not be too hard on oneself for being a victim. And there was comfort in this belief in the omnipotence of the KGB-not always pleasant, perhaps, but better than the alternative; who wanted to live in fear of a mere shadow?
Yakov sighed. “Maybe not. This place… even if someone knew about it, who would believe it? I'm here, and even I expect to wake up at any moment. It's so weird that I don't even know how to act most of the time… I met my dead grandfather, for crying out loud. I don't get it how you can be like this."
"Like what?” Galina looked toward the ground under her walking feet.
"Like all this… like it's real. You're taking it seriously."
"I have to,” she said. “My sister is here. And you… after I saw what the boatman did to you, I think you're taking it pretty seriously too."
"I don't want to talk about that.” Yakov picked up his pace. He looked at the trees, long beards of Icelandic moss undulating in the wind, the dark needles of black spruces casting a deep shadow over the narrow path, and felt deeply unsettled, just like he did under the unblinking gaze of the boatman when the icy fingers of his mind probed and sifted through Yakov's memories. And just on the edges of them, a sound stirred-a thin piercing cry, tearing the night silence apart like a sharp needle, and then falling silent. The night seemed so much quieter and colder now than before that cry started, and the hole left by the removed memory ached, like the phantom limb of a mutilated soldier.
Timur-Bey seemed to be nearing the goal-he stopped less, and forged ahead down the path overgrown with brambles and lamb's ear. Zemun followed c
losely behind, trampling down the vegetation with her hooves to make the way passable for the rest, although Yakov suspected that Koschey was far too inured to such minor obstacles to pay attention, and that Zemun's effort was for Yakov's and Galina's benefit.
The forest around them changed again, as it did many times on this journey. The trees changed from spruces to birches, and light played across their golden heart-shaped leaves. The path also widened, as if it had been recently traveled. The air opened up around them, and Yakov realized how suffocated he felt under the closed canopy of the spruces. Birches were so much nicer, so much more pastoral-they reminded him of the ubiquitous sentimentally patriotic paintings, always with birches and blue skies, always about the transcendent quality of the Russian forests and other natural habitats. But right now, he was glad to see them.
The clearings gaped at them from the right and left, soft succulent meadows of long rich grass, sharp sedges fringing the wet meadow margins where a brook gurgled in its gentle idiot tongue.
"Wait,” Timur-Bey whispered, and kneeled to examine footprints in the soft ground.
Yakov was not an experienced tracker, but even he could see that the meadow was thoroughly trampled.
"These are bare feet,” Timur-Bey pointed. “And these-not quite bare, but quite close. It looks like their boots are falling apart."
Sergey flapped his wings and hopped awkwardly to the ground. He half-hopped, half-ran to Timur-Bey's side, peering at a deep oval depression filled with murky swamp water. “This is the butt of a rifle,” he said.
"Or a musket,” Timur-Bey agreed. “Didn't they use to say that the bullet is stupid and the bayonet is wise?"
"Maybe a musket,” Sergey said. “My point is, we should probably be quiet and not attract attention."
"Maybe they're friendly,” Zemun said.
"They have guns,” Koschey said. “Not that it bothers me, but you fleshbags should probably keep it under advisement. Bare-footed men with large guns are rarely in a good enough mood to chat before shooting."
The Secret History of Moscow Page 17
