by Yana Vagner
‘There we go,’ Sergey said, rising to his feet. ‘We’ll see how it goes. If it smokes, we’ll extend the flue – I saw some bricks outside.’ And he turned back to look at me; he had a completely unexpected, triumphant, proud smile on his face.
I watched his smile and suddenly remembered the day he had first opened the door of our future house in Zvenigorod, the first I could truly call mine. While we were settling into it, Mishka had stayed with my mum, and for several months it was just us; we had no furniture and we ate our dinner on the floor by the fireplace, several plates, an ashtray and a bottle of whisky on the warm tiled floor. Somehow I had become anxious and refused to go there while it was being decorated, as if I was afraid to get attached to the place before it was ready, afraid to believe that the house would become mine, almost expecting him to change his mind and refuse to live with me. I won’t go, I used to tell him, I’ll only be in your way, let’s wait until we can live there. And then that day had finally come, and just as I had done a few minutes earlier, I had stood by the entrance, scared and shivering, still unable to imagine that this was my house, that it would be mine forever, that these walls and this roof were mine and nobody else had the right to come and send me away. Sergey had swung open the door in front of me with a gesture I will always remember, and had turned around with a triumphant and proud expression. The same as this one. And that’s why I took a step forward and made myself smile.
Afterwards we brought our things into the house, putting the bags and boxes on the mesh beds because the floor seemed too dirty. The thin door kept banging loudly as it let us in and out, and as soon as we were all inside, the house seemed to have shrunk even more and hung above us, cold and small. The fire had started in the stove, but it was still cold – it seemed even colder inside than outside – and the damned stove really did smoke. ‘Can you watch it, Dad?’ said Sergey. ‘We need to make another trip back before it gets dark… Lenny, come with me, I’ll show you where the woodpile is.’ The men went outside, and we, the four women and two children, stayed indoors. It became quiet and empty straight away, and I heard a high-pitched, whining sound: the wind was blowing through a small crack in one of the cloudy glass panes, and there was a sugar-white pile of snow on the windowsill. Marina sat on the bed, pressed her cold, reddened hands to her face, and started crying.
Cigarettes, I thought, I need cigarettes, at least one, somebody must have at least one wretched cigarette. I rushed outside and was relieved to see that the men hadn’t gone yet – they were folding the canvas from the trailer, turning it into a huge, untidy bundle. Coming up to them, I heard the doctor’s voice.
‘…help you carry the things,’ he said, lifting his head and looking into Sergey’s face. ‘This is the least I can do for you, and trust me, you can always, at any time, call me, and I’ll be right there…’
‘Of course,’ Sergey said.
‘The thing is…’ the doctor continued, visibly nervous, ‘I had a word with Ivan this morning… they don’t have a doctor, and there’s a lot of people… there’s also a woman who’s going to give birth soon, you see? And here I’ll only be a burden to you.’
‘Sure,’ Sergey repeated.
‘I’m confident that I’m needed there,’ said the doctor desperately.
‘And they’ve got more girls,’ Lenny laughed, and slapped the doctor on the back.
The doctor shuddered and turned to him. ‘Be careful with your scar,’ he said. ‘And for goodness’ sake, don’t lift anything heavy. I’ll try and get to you one of these days, to check how it’s healing.’
‘That’d be good,’ Lenny said seriously, and stretched out his hand to the doctor. ‘Thank you. Really, thank you.’
And they left, and came back later, and left again. I looked through the window from time to time to see their dark figures against the white expanse of the lake, first going away, then coming back. By the time the leaden-blue northern darkness finally descended, it turned out that they had managed to move all of our stuff, all those seemingly endless boxes, bags and bundles, leaving nothing on the shore apart from the empty vehicles.
‘We’ve only got to move the cars tomorrow, and that’ll be it.’ Sergey breathed out heavily, sitting down on one of the boxes and reaching his hands towards the steaming cup with the rest of Lenny’s posh tea. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a glass of vodka right now and going straight to bed,’ he said dreamily, sipping the tea and wincing. I watched him drink the tea, burning himself, the cup shaking in his hand, and thought, you’ll sleep for twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight – you’ve done everything you promised, and even more, and I won’t let anyone wake you up until you’ve had a proper rest.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay by Sergey’s side, tossing and turning on the creaky iron bed, and then carefully got up, draped the jacket over my shoulders and went outside. Reaching the edge of the footbridge, I looked into the distance, trying to see the other side of the lake, that thin, dark line along the horizon, but couldn’t see anything apart from the thick, cold, endless darkness.
The door creaked behind me and the dog came out, treading carefully between the gaps in the floorboards. He came up and poked my hand with his stumpy head, then sat, hugging his legs with his shaggy tail. We stood still for a while. Then, as if somebody up in the sky had turned a massive switch, thick, heavy snow started falling on us, separating us from both the lake and the indiscernible shore – indeed from the rest of the world – with what was beginning to feel like an impenetrable, solid wall. We waited for a little longer, the dog and I, then we turned around and went back into the warm house.
Swift Press
First published by Swift Press 2021
First published in English in Great Britain by Skyscraper Publications 2016
Originally published in Russia by Eksmo 2011
Map designed by Chloé Madeline
The publication of the book was negotiated through Banke, Goumen
& Smirnova Literary Agency (www.bgs-agency.com)
Copyright © Yana Vagner 2011
The right of Yana Vagner to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Text design, typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-80075-041-8
eISBN: 978-1-80075-042-5
