by Yana Vagner
If our host had a reason to drive out in the middle of the night in his tractor, after noticing the light from our cars on the deserted road, and then, without asking any questions, to invite eleven complete strangers to his house for the night, it could be only one thing: curiosity. As he had told us earlier, all links with the outer world, which were never great there even before the epidemic, had completely stopped: after the mobile signal had died in the middle of November, followed by television, then radio, the only way he could find out the news was from people passing through. During the last week and a half not a single car had gone past, so this news had disappeared altogether. Mikhalych (which was what he called himself, insisting that his full name and patronymic were too long) had listened to the story of our journey with a lot of attention, but he hadn’t believed that Moscow was dead, saying, ‘They’re just hiding, waiting for the medicine, as soon as the medicine comes they’ll creep out.’ It turned out that he, as well as everyone else he had talked to, was convinced that some kind of order did exist, that somewhere faraway, in the capital, there must still be a safe area of normal life. He was clinging fiercely to this idea, as if the thought that everyone else had been left to die of an unknown disease without any doctors, any food supply, any help wasn’t as scary as the realisation that there was nobody left to provide this help. For this reason, he’d decided not to believe that we were from Moscow, despite our Moscow number plates or anything else that Boris and Sergey were telling him, or at least that that we were an odd breed of Muscovite who for some unknown reason had been forbidden permission to wait out the disease in a safe place.
He unhesitatingly believed that Vologda and Cherepovets had fallen, as if he had been prepared for this kind of ending for them, but the news that people had abandoned Kirillov and Vytegra seemed to please him. ‘So they left,’ he said with a satisfied look. ‘They must have finally worked out there was nothing to do in the city,’ he added, as if continuing a dispute which had started a long time ago. When Sergey told him about the ‘cleansed’ villages, he fell silent for a long time but didn’t seem surprised; after a long period of silence, broken only by the sound of liquid poured into glasses, he said, ‘Well, let them try and come here, we’ll meet them,’ and then told us how two weeks earlier two men had come on foot to the village, either monks or priests – ‘There’s a monastery on the cape, in between the lakes, there’s no path at all, just taiga and marshes, and in the summer you can only go through there in a boat, but it’s quite far, about fifteen kilometres along the river and over the lake, and in the winter you can only walk on ice when it becomes hard enough’ – and had offered the villagers shelter in their impregnable monastery, which was cut off from the infested, dying cities by kilometres of marshy woods and water and was therefore safe. They gave everyone who wanted to accept their invitation a week, by the end of which (and they were very clear about this) they would lock down the monastery and wouldn’t let anyone in, in order not to risk the lives of its inhabitants. ‘We don’t need no monastery,’ said the man. ‘We live in a quiet place, we’ve never had any newcomers before, let alone now, we’ve lived here for many years, we’ve got a smallholding and livestock, we don’t need anything. It’s a bit hard without electricity, but we’ve managed, we’ve lived like this before. We’ll go hunting, fishing, we can sit it out, we’ll be fine. Two families left for the monastery, because they’ve got little ones, and three or four families from Oktiabrskoye village, but the others all stayed. When you mentioned the lake, I thought you meant you were going to the monastery, but they’ve probably closed it, like they said they would. Nobody else’s come from there again.’
To my surprise, Sergey decided to tell him where we were going. Maybe it was because this man was the first person on our journey who hadn’t needed anything from us and who, on the contrary, had been helpful; or maybe he was counting on getting his advice on our forthcoming journey of four hundred kilometres – the most unpopulated section but the hardest, too. Sergey was right to do so, because when he told him what route we were going to take, the old man said: ‘We had somebody visit us from Nigizhma – Nigizhma’s all alive, so be careful, they’re not expecting anyone. If they give you aggro, tell them you’re from me, just say you’re my family, then they’ll let you through.’ But as for the rest of the journey after Nigizhma, the man wasn’t optimistic at all. ‘It’s quiet here because there’s no road,’ he said glumly. ‘If I don’t clear the road, there’s no way you’ll be able to pass, but the further you go, the more people, and the more difficult your journey will be. There are some infected in Poudozh, and before that you’ll have to go through Medvezhiegorsk. There are certainly infected ones there too, and I heard there were gunshots, some bad people decided to take a chance. The infection, gunshots… I don’t know, it’s a bad road, very bad… but you don’t have a choice, you can’t go back, so the sooner you go the better, just don’t stop anywhere.’
If Boris and Sergey had planned to get the old man drunk, their plan failed; the alcohol only made him more talkative, whereas they, who had gone without sleep or food the whole day, started slurring their words. Nothing had been said about the fuel tank when the man, chuckling, started ushering them upstairs, saying:
‘I’ll let the dogs out now, so if you need the loo be careful when you come down, better not come down without me at all. I won’t sleep any more, so call me if you need anything.’ While Boris and Sergey were climbing the flimsy ladder to the loft, swearing as they went, I felt relieved for the first time since the start of their conversation. All the time these three men had been drinking spirit and talking peacefully and amicably, I had felt anxious, as if preparing myself to flee this house that had welcomed us. It was still completely dark outside, and there was only a dim light visible under the door from the kerosene lamp in the next room. When the unsteady walking finally stopped upstairs, and the man left the house with a creak of the door and it became completely silent, I lay on my back a bit longer, on the hard edge of the mattress, sleepless, puzzled by my bitter disappointment that whatever I’d been preparing myself for hadn’t happened. He did nothing bad to you, I thought, nothing at all, just saved you from death, what happened to you, what’s going on with you, damn it, if you can’t sleep because you can’t get rid of these unwanted, nasty thoughts?
The boy, who was squeezed between Ira and me, stirred and sighed in his sleep. I turned a bit to get more comfortable, and saw that Ira was awake too, and was staring tensely into the darkness, like me.
17
City Girls
We awoke when the early northern twilight settled upon the small, hushed village. The children were the first to start stirring, and we were compelled to get up. When I opened my eyes my first thought was that I had never fallen asleep, and only when I looked at my watch did I realise that we had slept the whole day and that it was evening again, which meant that we had lost another day, another whole day, while the road ahead was becoming more difficult and more dangerous. Sleepy and exhausted after spending many hours in a small space, on a hard uncomfortable bed, we went to check what was going on in the room next to us. There was nobody there apart from the old dog, who was still sleeping by the stove. The men were presumably still asleep, and the only evidence of last night’s conversation was the almost finished bottle of spirit – the glasses had been put away. None of us wanted to leave the room on our own, so we opened the door wide to light up the dim gallery. Together, like a frightened flock of birds, we shuffled to the toilet and back and then settled ourselves on a long bench by the simple wooden table with no tablecloth; we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. There was a full kettle with chipped enamel, but we thought it would be impolite to start rummaging for teabags and were too afraid to go out because we remembered about the dogs our host was going to let out.
‘I would trade my soul for a hot shower right now,’ Natasha said. ‘I feel so dirty after this smelly mattress, like I was sleeping on the floor. He proba
bly never cleans here.’
We’re still very much city girls, I thought with sadness. I wonder how long it will take us to stop wanting a hot shower and a clean toilet, or indeed wanting a toilet at all?
‘Let’s wake them up,’ suggested Marina, unsure. ‘What time is it? We need to go. Only we should eat something first. Where’s that man gone?’
Ira and I rose simultaneously, me to go upstairs and wake the men and she to go and look for our host, who had disappeared somewhere in the depths of the house. But as soon as I reached the ladder and she was about to take hold of the door handle, there was a deafening chorus of barking. Our dog immediately bristled; his fur stood on end, and he tilted his head and started growling. We heard the outside front door open and somebody stamp inside, shaking off the snow. As Ira quickly removed her hand from the handle and stepped back, the second door opened and two men barged into the house, both with beards framing their faces, which were red from the frost. The smell of the fresh frosty air rushed into the house with them, mixed with a strong whiff of alcohol. They stood silently, waiting in the door, looking at us in an unwelcoming way – the dog was growling louder at that point, dangerously baring his large yellowish teeth, and that was why, perhaps, none of them took another step forward, although they didn’t look at him.
‘Well, it’s just a load of women here,’ said one of them then, the one who was shorter and had small beady eyes; the other, who was taller and older, shook his head.
‘Can’t be right. There are four cars outside, you saw. We’ll ask Mikhalych then. Where’s Mikhalych?’ he asked and looked up at us. His eyes were cloudy and expressionless, and I tried to remember if anyone had ever looked at me like this, with such empty indifference, and couldn’t. I just shrugged without saying a word, not because I didn’t want to answer but because I couldn’t make myself speak. There was stirring in the loft – they’ve woken up, I thought, they’re going to come down, it’d be good if they brought the guns with them, I don’t think they left them in the car, not after what happened to Lenny – but at the same time our host’s mighty figure appeared in the doorway and both unwelcome guests, who had frightened us in the beginning, suddenly shrank and looked insignificant and pitiful. The old man, standing behind the other two men, instantly pushed them back out into the lobby with one quick movement of his shoulder and closed the door. Then we heard his thunderous voice:
‘What do you want here?’
At this moment the loft hatch opened and Boris hurried downstairs. His face was crumpled from sleep but he had a rifle on his shoulder, which was what I had hoped for; Sergey followed him, also armed. They quickly glanced at us and, satisfied that we were unhurt, went over to the door, listening closely to what was happening behind it. Andrey, Mishka and finally Lenny, who was finding going down the steps difficult, hurried down from the loft.
I could hear voices from behind the door. Although I could only hear the odd word, I thought our host was talking to more people than had been there before. Somebody said – and we heard it clearly:
‘So you cleared the road again, did you? But we agreed…’ And they started talking all together, their words fusing into one continuous blur. We could only hear the booming voice of the old man, whose every word could be heard distinctly above the common rumpus, like a professional actor. ‘Women with kids,’ he said first, and then: ‘I told you, they’re healthy!’ But the voices, which were now more than two, continued to sound with increased loudness until the old man roared, swearing; we couldn’t understand what exactly he shouted. Then the noise stopped and turned into a quiet grumbling, and the front door slammed shut. The dogs started barking again but immediately quietened down, as if the people they saw were familiar to them.
‘I have to tell you something,’ said our host, coming back to us, his face glum, ‘the road’s bad and I wanted to offer you another night here, but it looks like you’ll have to go right now.’
We looked at him, silent, and then he glanced at us and added, wincing in frustration: ‘They’re not going to touch you now, but I can’t hold them back for long. They’re not bad people, they’re just normal, simple folk, but you’ve got quite a lot of stuff with you. They’re not starved – well, they won’t be, we’ve got a lake and have a lot stocked up – but your other stuff, cars, guns…’ He was talking as if he was cross with us for disrupting his calm and quiet world and upsetting some fine balance which he had struggled to achieve and that would be difficult to restore even if we were to leave straight away. ‘In short, get ready and leave right now, God bless you.’
Despite our hunger – we hadn’t eaten for over a day – and knowing that even a half-hour delay would give us the chance to feed the children at least, something in his voice made us hurriedly gather our possessions without contradicting him. Disappearing outside for a short time to lock up the dogs, who still barked nervously in the darkness every now and then, the old man came back to help us move our stuff into the cars, which had gone very cold during the short winter day. All four engines were running, but none of us dared turn on our headlights. The hatchback’s parking lights, glowing dimly, were the only thing providing us with any illumination while we, trying to keep the noise down and to close the doors quietly, put the sleeping bags and other things back into the cars. The village didn’t seem as sleepy and deserted as it had when we first arrived; there were still no people on the streets, but the windows looked a lot more alert, as if people were watching us from behind the curtains, and we felt particularly uncomfortable at this thought, which may have existed only in our imaginations.
The children got in the cars, Lenny settled on the back seat of the Land Cruiser and even the dog, who had run off for a while to relieve himself and came back straight away, took his usual place, but we were still delaying our departure because we had one vitally important thing on our minds, which for some reason we couldn’t figure out how to voice. To win some more time the men started smoking, standing in between the quietly rumbling cars, and our host kept on saying something about Nigizhma – ‘The third house down on the right, Ivan Alekseyevich lives there, he’s my friend, go to him, do you hear, do you hear me?’ He was addressing Sergey, only Sergey wasn’t looking at him; Sergey couldn’t look the old man in the eye and kept turning to Boris, trying to get his attention, and when their eyes finally met I held my breath, because I knew it was going to happen. Ira stepped forward, obstructing the huge man with her figure, and, cutting him off, put her small, gloveless hand on the massive, stiff sleeve of his sheepskin and said clearly, with intent:
‘You’ve got a cow in there, haven’t you? A cow?’ And as soon as he nodded, confused, she carried on: ‘Can we have a little bit of milk for the kids? They haven’t eaten for over a day. Just a little bit of milk? Please?’
Even the man was surprised by this strange request, which seemed to come altogether at the wrong time and in the wrong place, but he didn’t show it. Glancing down at her briefly, he nodded and walked back into the house. As soon as he disappeared, she waited briefly, as if listening. The rest of us stood motionless, too surprised to move, and then in two leaps Ira reached the Vitara, and, with the driver’s door open, suddenly reversed with a lot of revving, blocking the wide, round-topped front door of the house with the car’s bumper. The stiff frozen plastic hit the wooden slats with a dull sound.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she said, turning to Sergey and glancing at him angrily. ‘Why are you waiting? Where are the jerrycans? Or were you going to steal the tractor?’ Her call made Sergey jump, dump his unfinished cigarette and rush to the car. He opened the boot, Andrey followed him, and Boris, jerking the rifle off his shoulder, went towards the fuel tank and started digging up something bulky which was stuck to the end of the tank closest to us.
‘Milk for the children?’ I asked, still not believing what I had heard, and she answered quietly and tiredly, as if she had spent the whole of her energy on that leap to the car and the sharp manoeuvre which had
cost the Vitara its bumper, ‘Well, it’s better than what they were going to do.’
‘He’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ I said, desperate. ‘As soon as he realises why you’ve sent him off. He must have heard the racket, the whole village must have heard—’
‘Anya,’ she said slowly and bitterly, her head low, and I thought: this is the first time she’s called me by my name. Not ‘baby’, but ‘Anya’, as if we were just friends, as if nothing had happened. ‘He won’t be back,’ she said. ‘He’ll have realised, probably yesterday, what we were after as soon as we saw the fuel tank. He was waiting to see what we were going to do, and they kept drinking that damned spirit with him and chatted and did nothing, and now they have no time left to do it properly.’
How can you do it properly? I thought, slowly realising that she was right, that we’d been ‘good people’. That’s what he had called us, ‘good people’. I left Ira and opened the Vitara’s boot too. It’ll be a long job, I thought, to pour so much diesel into the jerrycans, one by one, in a hurry, in the dark. We’ll never make it, unless he really did realise and has decided to let us leave without scaring the kids by making too much noise. There were only two cans in the tightly packed car’s boot – small, ten-litre ones which Boris had brought with him from Ryazan. I grabbed them and ran to the tank, where the men were already working, and when I had almost reached them, Boris suddenly straightened up, aimed the gun in front of him and said quietly: ‘Stop.’
He was looking over my head and slightly to the right; it was clear he was addressing somebody else, not me. I stopped and slowly turned my head, and saw the old man by the wall of the house. He had no hat on and his sheepskin was undone, as if he had put it on in a hurry, but he stood calmly, and there was no gun in his hands. For some reason the first thing that sprang to mind was that his head was going to get cold, that he’d probably dropped his hat while running around the house. Of course, I thought; it can’t be right that such a huge house had only one exit, how stupid. And then I thought: And he came back. He came back, but she said he wouldn’t.
