Kitabı oku: «Two Cousins of Azov», sayfa 2

Tolya Talks

The yellow ball of the sun hung like an egg yolk in the milky sky, spreading no warmth, exuding no glow – simply suspended. Anatoly Borisovich, or Tolya for short, swallowed a rich blob of saliva. Egg in milk, like his baba made on special mornings long ago, when he had been small and blond, able to charm the crows from the trees, the snails from the buckets. When he had been young. He whisked his thoughts, scrambling the sun-egg, hankering after – something edible, something nurturing, something good. He realised, with a grunt, that he was very hungry.

How many pairs of eyes along his corridor were resting on that sun, he wondered, how many of his fellow patients – is that what they were? – were still breathing, waiting for pancakes and milk, porridge and death. He knew there were other patients. He heard them sometimes. He hadn’t been out of his room, couldn’t remember how he’d got there or what lay beyond the door, but he knew there were others. He turned his head, bushy grey hair rustling on the pillow. The door was opening, the green of the newly painted corridor seeping into his room. A young, athletic-looking man entered and stood at the end of the bed, fidgeting, paper and pen held to his chest. The man appeared to be speaking to him. Was he real?

It was very odd, being spoken to. It hadn’t happened for, well, quite a while. Anatoly Borisovich screwed up his eyes. Yes, the young man’s mouth was definitely moving, the chiselled jaw jumping up and down, teeth winking. There were lots of words coming out, a jumble of sounds. He decided to listen, and did his best to tune in. He recognised the familiar crests and dips of the letter clusters, the sounds of syllables, but the words themselves seemed to be running into each other, racing, charging, leap-frogging even. He screwed up his nose.

The young man stopped. All was quiet. Anatoly Borisovich licked his lips, and his left eye twitched.

‘So what do you think?’ asked the young man. Anatoly Borisovich snuffled with satisfaction. He’d found the end of the ball of wool, the start and end of the phrase. Things were improving. ‘Is that something you might be able to take part in?’

Anatoly Borisovich hesitated. He hadn’t understood anything else the boy had said. And although he wanted to speak, he couldn’t marshal his tongue: it flopped shyly about in his mouth and hid behind his gums. Eventually he managed a smile, crinkling up his eyes, and let out a small groan.

The young man spoke again, more slowly. ‘It is very simple. You tell me about your dementia … well, I mean your forgetfulness, erm, your loss of memory and how it happened that you ended up in here, er, when was it …’ Grey eyes danced across the notes. ‘Thursday eighth of September? Almost a month ago. Anyway, I will analyse the information you give me, make a diagnosis, and then find a way of reducing your confusion, and your fears. So that you are happier. And maybe, you know … you can go home, at some point. You had some kind of physical breakdown, didn’t you? And a mental cataclysm of some sort? You were raving when you first came in?’

Anatoly Borisovich nodded and flexed his mouth, preparing to speak, but the boy, sensing a positive reception, was quick to go on.

‘Your file is quite sparse, but potentially, I find you an interesting subject … and anything you can tell me will be useful. I’m a medical student, you see, and I’m in the middle of my gerontology module. You will be my case study.’ The paper pad crinkled in his hands. ‘I have to get it in by the end of October, so …’ He looked into the old man’s eyes. ‘It’s not just decrepitude, is it? There was something – dramatic?’

Anatoly Borisovich tried to speak, but the boy went on. ‘You are willing to take part? Wait, turn your head to the light please?’ The young man paused, and squinted. ‘Actually, I want to ask you about those scars. Scars can be a very good place to start. I have learnt, you see, they cause trauma not just to the skin.’ Anatoly Borisovich nodded, the corners of his mouth pressed downwards with the weight of his visitor’s insight. The boy went on. ‘Maybe I can ask questions, and you can answer either yes or no, if that is all you can manage?’

The boy finally stopped talking. Anatoly Borisovich gulped in air and pushed out some words.

‘Your name? What is your name?’ The sounds crawled across dry vocal cords.

‘Vlad,’ said the young man, passing him a beaker of stale water from the bedside cabinet.

‘Vlad?’ He sipped and coughed. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

The young man smiled and fidgeted with his pen, but made no attempt to answer.

‘I mean,’ the old man took another sip of water, ‘Is it short for Vladimir, or Vladislav, or what? I can’t talk to you … if I don’t know you.’ He spoke slowly, waving his fingers in the air to underline the words. If Vlad had been blessed with an imagination, he might have likened Anatoly Borisovich to a wizard.

‘Vladimir,’ the young man replied with a smirk.

‘Good.’ Anatoly Borisovich heaved a great sigh. ‘You want to hear my story? I have never told it. Can you picture that?’ The young man was about to respond, so he went on swiftly, gathering pace. ‘Truth be told, I’d forgotten it. It was lost somewhere, somewhere in the trees, for so many years. But it has been coming back, while I have been lying here, seeing no one, being no one.’ His voice was almost inaudible, soft and dry like the whisper of grasses at the end of summer. ‘I forgot my present, but remembered my past. Well, well … And since you ask, so nicely … I will tell you. But it’s strange to hear words in my own voice! Imagine that!’ His eyes lit up with dazed wonder: eyes that shone too brightly. ‘Did you know what my voice sounded like? I’ll bet you didn’t. You’re the first person to show any … interest. They feed me and wash me and prod me with sticks but … but no one talks, no one listens.’ He pushed himself upright in the bed and bade Vlad shove another pillow behind his shoulders. ‘What day is it?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Expand?’ Anatoly Borisovich crinkled his face at Vlad.

‘Fourth of October. 1994.’

‘Ah! Autumn already.’ He took another drink, and smacked his lips. The voice got louder. ‘They never ask me how I am, you know: they just look at that chart, and ask me if I need the toilet,’ he carried on. ‘They think I’m a piss pot!’ He took childish delight in the word, chuckles hissing from his throat like air from an old tyre.

Vlad smiled and scratched his curly, chestnut head. Anatoly Borisovich noticed how the biceps quivered under the knit of his foreign-looking jumper.

‘I will put that right. Would you like some tea, perhaps? I can get an orderly to bring you some?’

‘Ah! Tea! Yes!’ The old man’s eyes shone, as if tea were a long-lost son.

A few minutes later, with the aid of some fragrant lubrication, the words tumbled briskly on his tongue.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ He stirred in a fistful of sugar cubes. ‘Is that a pine tree out there? Beyond the fence?’ He took a sip, and sucked in his cabbage-leaf cheeks. ‘These eyes are worn out with looking. I have looked long and hard, at many things, in many places. But I can’t make it out. It moves, you see: sometimes nearer, sometimes further away. One night it was at the window. I think it’s a tree. It must be, mustn’t it? If not a tree, well, I …’ the old man stuttered and stopped, turning wide eyes to Vlad. ‘There isn’t a forest?’

Vlad straddled the visitor’s chair by the old man’s bedside, pen and paper dropping to the floor.

‘No forest, Anatoly Borisovich. I don’t know about trees: I am a medical man. It may be a pine.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘I would say it is definitely a tree.’ The old man smiled encouragingly. ‘No forest, but lots of water. Because we’re by the sea.’

‘By the sea? Oh really?’

‘Of course – just a few kilometres further west.’ Vlad pointed into the grey. ‘That way: the Azov Sea.’

‘Ah! Yes! That rings a bell … maybe. Is Rostov far?’

‘Not far. We’re more or less half-way between Azov and Rostov. You are from Rostov, no?’

‘No.’ The old man nodded. ‘Not Rostov.’

‘Ah. Well, you seem to have found your voice, so talk, Anatoly Borisovich. Tell me what happened to you. The more you say, the more detailed my case study will be, and the more helpful to you. I’ve plenty of time: my shift has officially ended, so I’m free all afternoon, more or less. Do you remember being brought here?’ He smiled, generous lips drawing back to show the clean faces of straight white teeth. The old man’s eyes rested on them for a moment: they were sharp and huge and strong looking, like those of a horse. His tongue probed the stumps and pits in his own worn gums.

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Ah, well, maybe we can start a little further back?’

Anatoly Borisovich took a sip of tea, slurping joyously.

‘Very good. I was born in Siberia—’

‘Maybe not that far—’

‘—a little village not far from Krasnoyarsk. You know Krasnoyarsk?’ The old man waited, and fixed Vlad with a stare that demanded an answer.

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, of course – it has a hydroelectric dam. Wait, have you seen …’ he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a large, crisp bank note folded neatly in half. ‘See? It’s on the back of the new ten thousand note. The dam.’ He held it to the old man’s face for a moment.

‘Ten thousand rouble note? Are you a millionaire, Vlad?’ Anatoly Borisovich was incredulous.

‘Not yet, but I’m hoping!’ He flashed a smile. ‘But seriously, ten thousand roubles is nothing: about two US dollars. That’s Yeltsin’s inflation for you … we’re all millionaires now!’ Vlad winked as he re-folded the note and placed it carefully back in his pocket.

‘Two dollars? Millionaires?’ The old man’s mouth flopped open and a furry, pale tongue poked out. ‘But what would we want with US dollars, eh? We have our health and this Soviet Union, I mean, um … what’s it called now?’

Vlad shrugged and bent to pick up his pen and paper. ‘What indeed? But continue with your background. You were born in Siberia.’ He leant forward on the chair, thrusting his chin towards the old man. ‘Do you remember your childhood?’

‘Oh yes, it was all to do with being a child. I remember, you know, out there in the forest, everyone had to work. In the forest, with the trees … hard work! Everyone had quotas. You had to fulfil your quota, or your pay was cut. It was piecework. My papa, he over-filled his quotas. All the time. He was a hero, you know! They put him on a flag – for a time. We never saw him.’ The old man’s eyes wandered as his mind strayed back to reach out to his papa.

‘Freezing cold all the time, I should think? And what about the gulags, the political prisoners? Did you see them? It must have been the 1930s?’

Vlad’s questioning seemed vulgar to the old man. He wanted to think about his papa, and his baba, and the pine trees. He didn’t want to think about the camps. He frowned.

‘You may have thousands of roubles, Vlad, but you know little about people. Listen,’ he coughed and sipped his tea, ‘I was a child. I was happy. I didn’t know about any camps. Comrade Stalin was our friend, our protector!’ His eyes glowed. ‘It was just a little village, a straggle of huts with pigs and chickens, hard workers, lazy drunks. It was cold, in winter. But Krasnoyarsk is in the south: we had a summer, oh yes … hot and humid and heaving with midges! Midges so bad they sent the cows mad … or so went the story. There were lots of stories.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Stories come out of the forest, you see … come out of the bark of the trees, to eat up your mind like an army of ants!’ He stopped, grinning. ‘Let me tell you a story.’

‘Is it relevant?’ Vlad answered meekly. He knew he should be drilling for facts, perhaps working through a structured Q and A about the weeks leading up to the old man’s admission. He also knew Polly would be waiting for him after work. She’d probably have sex with him – joyous, sweaty, slippery sex – if she was in a good mood. Which she wouldn’t be, if he was late. He checked the Tag-Heuer watch strapped to his wrist.

‘You said you would listen, Vlad! Please listen!’

The old man wanted to ramble, to go way back. Maybe it would be good for a bit of practical analysis. Maybe, even, he could write it up as a ‘talking cure’? It depended on what was said, of course, but … He had thought the old man would cough up some story about a fall, maybe TB, too much vodka or maybe some old war wound … But a spot of psychoanalysis might be worth a try. A story was a story. And to be honest, he had always loved a good story. Just not as much as sex.

‘Yes, of course, go ahead, Anatoly Borisovich.’

‘Once upon a time, in a forest far away, there lived a young lad: green eyes, impish smile, and cow-lick hair. A simple-clever lad called Tolya—’

‘That’s you?’

‘You’re sharp! A boy called Tolya, simple-clever, who lived with his granny, whom he called Baba, his dog called Lev, and his papa. Away in the East, where the bears prowl and the pine trees sway. Where the saws bite the trees day-in, day-out, and where little boys learn about life …’

Vlad rested the pen nib on the paper, ready to write.

Tolya wrapped his hands around the mug of broth waiting for the warmth to flow through his sore, grubby fingers into the bones of his hands. He was sitting in his corner on the wooden bench, swinging his feet under the table and leaning against the wall. The lamp was lit but his eyes strayed to the blackness beyond the window next to him and his breath steamed up the glass. Not seeing was worse than seeing. He put the mug on the table and wiped the steam with his sleeve. He peered into the hole he’d made and moved the lantern away, the better to make out what was outside.

For a handful of heartbeats there was nothing but darkness and the noise of the wind chasing through the sky and the trees. Then he saw something move near the well. He strained forward, feet nearly touching the floor as he pivoted. He watched the rectangle of black, holding his breath. Nothing materialised into a shape. He slowly breathed out and sat back down to slug the last mouthful of broth. It was good, salty and hot, and he felt cosy with the mug in his hands. He observed his own reflection in the bottom, all fat nose and tiny bug eyes. He chuckled: Tolya the monster, RARRRRR! King of the forest! He roared and nearly choked, coughing broth back into the mug and spluttering barley grain down his chin. He wiped his face on his sleeve. As he turned his head to do so, again he saw a movement in the corner of his eye, far off in the yard: a fluttering, maybe at ground level, maybe in the arms of the pine trees reaching out like giants when the wind blew. It had not been a figure, but a flicker. A flapping wing, perhaps. He shivered, and swung his legs under the table to keep himself brave.

‘We are marching … we are marching … and we march to vic-tor-y!’ he sang in a wobbly, high-pitched, keeping-his-spirits-up voice, determined to sit it out until Baba’s return. He would keep watch, and not be scared. Although being scared was one of his favourite thrills. Just not too scared.

‘Where’s she got to, eh boy? Don’t be scared: there’s nothing to be scared of.’ He addressed Lev the dog in comforting tones. Lev wasn’t scared: Lev was never scared. He was stretched out under the table resting his bones, dreaming of rabbits. Tolya rubbed his ears. ‘She’ll be back in a moment. Or Papa. And he’ll bring some sausage. I’m sure he will. And cheese. And maybe a drawing pad, like he said he would. Hmmm … We are marching, we are marching, and we march to—’

The singing ended in a squeak. A thump had rattled the window. He’d been lying belly-down on the bench, stroking the dog under the table, and had forgotten to keep a look out. Now he dared not look up, dared not move. There was something monstrous in the yard. His heart thudded. There it was again! A tapping on the window, faint but insistent, as if hard, icy fingers were reaching out, piercing the glass, and if he sat up …

‘Lev … Lev!’ His voice squeezed between taut vocal cords, his body stiff like washing left in the frost. ‘Lev … come here, boy!’ The dog looked up drowsily, puzzled by the child. He licked the empty hand proffered to him and flopped back down with a groan.

‘Lev! listen! There’s something outside. I can hear it. It wants to get in!’ Still Tolya bent under the table, now pushing his head and shoulders down and tipping himself off the bench to the floor. He lay alongside the dog. ‘It’s coming for us … we must be brave … we must shut our eyes, and cross our fingers. That’s the drill. The boys at school told me. Cousin told me. And we must ask Comrade Stalin—’

Tolya’s head cracked the underside of the table as the door opened and cold air washed into the cottage. He cowered. Lev thumped his tail.

‘Tolya!’ A voice like a pistol shot. ‘Come help me, son! I’ve got a lot to carry. Come on now, pet, help Baba!’

Lev heaved his tired bones from the floor and ambled towards the owner of the voice, tongue lolling as she cuffed his ear with a large, reddened hand.

‘Lev, you old rascal, what do you want with me, eh? And what have you done with my grandson?’

‘Baba, I’m here,’ Tolya scrambled out from under the table, pulling hair and dirt from his baggy grey trousers as he did so. His hands shook. ‘We heard a scary sound. It was the moth boy, fluttering in the trees. He tapped on the window! I was … I was petrified!’ The boy looked up from his trousers and a single tear escaped each of his bright green eyes as he blinked.

Baba’s hands stopped still on the dog’s nose and she regarded the boy. ‘You heard the moth boy, you say? And what did he sound like, eh? Like wind in the trees, or like me walking in the yard?’ She raised an eyebrow and waited for Tolya to reply, but the boy avoided her gaze, and instead fiddled with the buttons on his jerkin, running his fingers over their smooth surface again and again. ‘Did Lev hear the moth boy?’

Tolya shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Baba.’

‘You’ve been scaring yourself instead of doing your jobs. Hiding under the table with the dog – you should have been drawing water from the well, or clearing ash from the stove. You’re a rascal, young Tolya, and Papa will have to be told!’

She put down her bag and handed him a solid brick of black bread. ‘Food in our stomachs, son, that’s what you need to worry about. The real – the here! You’ve scared yourself, and now no one will sleep.’

‘But I’ll sleep with you, Baba, and with Lev here, and I’ll sleep well. No matter what the moth boy does.’

‘Ha, maybe you’ll sleep well with some food inside you, we’ll see. But you mustn’t get between me and my sleep, I’ve a lot to do tomorrow. Now, help me get the dinner ready. We won’t wait for Papa, he’s going to be late.’

‘He’s got a quota,’ said Tolya in a serious, grown-up tone.

‘He’s got a quota,’ echoed Baba, nodding her head.

The pair washed their hands in the bucket by the stove and began preparations for the evening meal.

‘No sausage tonight, Baba?’ Tolya searched through her bag.

‘Ha! Sausage? No sausage tonight. I’ve forgotten what it looks like. They say things will get better but … but there, we will wait and see. I haven’t forgotten the taste!’

‘Ah, the glorious taste!’

‘Pure heaven,’ grinned Baba.

‘Like eating sunshine,’ said Tolya.

‘You know, we could always try making sausage out of Lev. What do you reckon?’ Baba’s worn cheeks glowed red as she chuckled.

‘Baba! That’s not funny!’

‘No,’ she agreed wryly, after a short pause, ‘it’s not. You’re my sunshine, boy. You are my joy. Don’t ever change.’ She hugged him close, bread knife in hand, and breathed in the familiar, warm smell of his hair, his neck, his young life.

They set about their tasks, and swapped stories of the day’s events.

‘Did you draw me anything today, young Tolya, eh?’

‘No, Baba. I need a new piece of chalk. That one’s all worn away, I can’t hold onto it.’

‘Akh, again? Well, we’ll see what I can do. Maybe up at the school house we’ll be able to beg a piece of chalk. We’ll keep trying. I love your pictures. You’ve got a gift there, son. Much good it’ll do you.’

The well bucket clanked as the wind whipped out of the trees and across the yard. The boy dropped his spoon. ‘So, Tolya,’ said Baba slowly, ‘now you’ve told me about school, what’s this talk of the moth boy? Where’s this coming from? Old stories, boy … not good Communism.’ She observed him from the corner of her eye as she began to cut the black loaf into slices. Tolya stirred the buckwheat porridge with an inexpert hand.

‘We were talking after school, Baba. Pavlik has seen him. And Gosha. He came to their windows, in the night. He was tapping for the candles. And cousin Go—’

‘He should know better!’ Baba tutted, and shook her head.

‘It’s true though! He said the moth boy wants to get into their houses, to get near the light, and lay eggs in their ears. They’ve all seen him! All of them! He waits at the windows! Maybe he wants to eat them! Suck out their brains—’

‘Enough! On with your jobs!’ Baba scowled over the bread. ‘Those boys with their stories! I’m going to have a word with that cousin of yours!’

Tolya pretended to get on with his jobs, but his eyes strayed back to the window. In his head, he could really see moth boy: his moon-washed face, pale as the northern summer night, pale as milk, luminous as ice; his huge eyes, round, bulbous, staring from his shrunken skull like twin planets, empty and dead; his stomach, round and furry, grossly blown up and dissected into two pieces – thorax and abdomen, both parts moving and throbbing; worst of all, his wings, fluttering, green and brown and blue, vibrating, shimmering, huge and furry: inhuman. He could see him flitting amongst the trees, shivering, diving, a puff of moth-dust from his vibrating wings, projecting himself, aching to cross from the trees into the village, from the dark to the light, fluttering over chimneys and into window frames, knocking on the panes, reaching out with limbs that were withered and ice-cold, frond-like … were they wing-tips, or antennae?

‘Is that done?’

He sucked in air with a jolt. The spoon in his hand was hovering over the pan, not stirring but making useless round movements in the air. The porridge looked stodgy, and was drying at the edges.

‘Yes, it’s done, Baba.’ He nodded and smiled, and carefully scooped a good serving into each of their bowls, adding a peck of salt as he went.

‘Eat well, Tolya. We have a Subbotnik tomorrow: you will need your strength for the voluntary work.’

‘Another Subbotnik! But Baba, it’s Saturday! I want to play, and help Papa in the yard, and teach Lev how to march!’

Baba gave Tolya a tired look, and sighed into her lumpy porridge. ‘Tolya, that’s the point of a Subbotnik. We do good works on our day off. Well, we who have no choice do. And everyone reaps the benefit. It is our duty.’

‘But that’s not fair!’ The boy’s bottom lip started to tremble.

‘Life’s not fair, Tolya, life’s not fair. Now eat your porridge, and grow big and strong. Then you can tell them what to do with their Subbotnik.’ She laughed, the sound gravelly and low. Tolya cuddled up closer to her, sharing her warmth, and chewed on his black bread and buckwheat, determined to grow big and strong.

Later that night, as they lay side-by-side in the big wooden bed in the corner of the room, Tolya listened to his baba’s breathing. Steady, big breaths whistled in and out of her chest, making the quilt rise and fall, rustling slightly. She was warm and solid, like a living stove. He knew she wasn’t asleep.