Under A Blood Red Sky Part 44

Deputy Stirkhov exhaled a grey snake of smoke that coiled round the room as he waved Sofia into a chair in his gleaming chrome office. A vodka bottle sat on his desk without its lid. It was half empty but the gla.s.s beside it was full.

Sofia slid on to the leather seat in front of the desk. 'You underestimate me,' she smiled.

'You have information for me?'

'Of course. It's what you paid me for. Didn't I promise it?'

A satisfied smile split his smooth moon face in half. 'Not everyone does what they promise in this world.'

'I do. If you think otherwise, you don't know me.'

'I intend to get to know you much better,' he said smoothly and reached into his desk drawer. He drew out another shot gla.s.s, filled it and pushed it across to her. The gla.s.s had Lapland reindeer etched on its surface.

'Thank you,' she said, but didn't pick it up.

She felt his gaze on her blouse. It was one of Zenia's, of homespun cloth, a dusky rose-pink with embroidered woodland flowers on the collar and cuffs.

'I am informed that a member of your village is in prison right now.' He seemed to be talking to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'If you mean Comrade Pashin, he has been released.'

His eyes shot up to hers. 'Indeed? When?'

'Today.'

'That's a shame, I was sure they'd hold on to our wayward factory director. Dagorsk is better off without the likes of him.'

'Why?'

'Because he's a troublemaker. Oh yes, I grant that he knows his stuff as an engineer and has shaken up those lazy imbeciles who work in his factory, but he's one of those arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who think they know better than the Party line.' He leaned forward on his elbows and pointed a manicured finger at her. 'That one is not a man of the people like he pretends. He's hiding something, I'm certain. I tell you I can feel it in my p.i.s.s every time I see him. Just wait,' he threw the vodka down his throat and stubbed out his cigarette, still jabbing at it long after the b.u.t.t was out, 'he'll trip himself up one day and I'll be there to catch him.'

Sofia scooped up her drink from the desk. For a split second Stirkhov's eyes widened as though he believed she was going to throw it in his face, but instead she raised her gla.s.s to the portrait of Stalin and drank it straight down. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat that was almost a hiss, then she smiled at Stirkhov.

'How perceptive you are, Comrade Deputy.'

'And how very beautiful you are, Comrade Morozova.'

She let her eyelashes flutter and put a hand to her throat, as though to still the sudden race of her heart. 'I'm glad we understand each other,' she smiled. 'Now we can do business.'

'So what's this information you've brought me from Tivil? A kolkhoznik kolkhoznik been late to work, has he? Or did one of your hamfisted peasants get into a drunken brawl and is now being denounced for singing obscene words to the tune of the been late to work, has he? Or did one of your hamfisted peasants get into a drunken brawl and is now being denounced for singing obscene words to the tune of the Internationale Internationale?'

'No, nothing like that.'

'Then what?'

'Someone in Tivil is h.o.a.rding, and I mean large quant.i.ties of potatoes, swede and grain.'

It was like throwing a grenade. In her mind she heard the explosion rip through the quiet smoke-filled office. Comrade Stirkhov's mouth hung open.

'Now I'll grab Tivil by the throat,' he growled, 'and shake it till it begs for mercy. Who is this Enemy of the People?'

Sofia raced back to Tivil. The morning sky was a vivid splash of blue and a handful of crows hung on the breeze, barely dipping their wings. The street was noisy when she reached the village - two women and a gaggle of girls were trying to wash a goat under the water pump and the animal was putting up a struggle. Its bristly white coat was caked in mud from the pond and the children were shrieking with laughter each time it b.u.t.ted their skinny chests. Sofia paused, observing the scene, memorising it, savouring the ordinariness of it. From now on, nothing would be ordinary.

She headed over to the school, where summer camp was still in full progress. The yard was bustling with crisp white Young Pioneer shirts and shining bright eyes, little bodies all racing around and performing perfect cartwheels. Yes, she thought, Zenia was right. These children are the future of Tivil. It astonished Sofia to realise how much she cared. This village had in some strange way nestled tight against her heart.

'Have you come to read to us?'

It was Anastasia, swinging on the fence with her feet bare, a tendril of hair threaded between her lips.

'No, not today, Anastasia. Another time, I promise. I need to speak to your head teacher - will you do me a favour and tell her I'm here?'

At that moment she spotted Pyotr's unruly mop of brown hair. He was over in the shade of a clump of alder trees, obviously demonstrating to a circle of younger boys how to build a cantilever bridge with logs and planks. It looked an elaborate construction to Sofia's untutored eye and when a child leapt on to the central span and bounced up and down on it, she held her breath. But it didn't collapse and she felt an absurd rush of pride in him. Anastasia's eager eyes followed Sofia's to Pyotr and her small chest heaved in a silent sigh. Then she skipped off to the stretch of parched gra.s.s where Elizaveta Lishnikova was timing races with a large stopwatch.

For one vivid second, Sofia wanted the world to stand still. Right here and now. With children at play and Mikhail safe in his bed, the sun shining and Sofia herself in the village street as if she belonged there. Just stop. Here and now in this small moment of happiness. To stay here for ever. But she drew in a deep shuddering breath and moved on to the next moment and the next after that. Because there was her promise to Anna.

But what if Anna were already dead? What if all this was for nothing?

'What happened last night?'

Elizaveta gazed sternly at Sofia. 'You were there,' she said. 'You have eyes in your head. You saw what happened yourself.'

They were standing in the teacher's elegantly furnished living room. Pictures lined the walls, old photographs of men in extravagant uniforms and formidable women in large dresses, with medals and jewellery hand-tinted to shine out. Sofia wanted to spend time examining them, seeking out Elizaveta Lishnikova's strong features in their faces, but such curiosity would not be welcomed. Instead she asked the question again.

'What happened last night? You are a rational person. I don't believe you would take part in a ceremony that was . . . unhealthy.'

'Is that what you think it was? Unhealthy?'

'No.' Sofia shook her head. 'No, I don't. But I've seen the damage it does to Rafik and the way it makes him ill.'

Elizaveta frowned and ran a finger along the arch of one eyebrow, smoothing out the thoughts behind it. 'Sit down,' she said.

Sofia chose a seat on a fragile chaise longue and to her surprise Elizaveta came and sat beside her, her back erect and her hands folded quietly on her lap. The pose made Sofia think immediately of the aristocratic women in the photographs.

'Comrade Lishnikova, I want to understand more about what it is the gypsies do.' Sofia looked into the other woman's proud brown eyes. 'Please. Help me.'

The eyes didn't change but the mouth opened a fraction and gave an involuntary smile. 'I don't know you, young woman, and this is a dangerous society we are living in, riddled with informers eager to earn a cheap rouble by making up lies about-'

'I'm not an informer.'

'You've been seen entering Deputy Stirkhov's office.'

'Word travels fast.'

'This is Soviet Russia, so what do you expect? But tell me, if not to inform, why were you there?' The older woman lifted her chin and peered down her long nose through half-closed eyes.

'To protect Tivil.'

'I think you mean, to protect Comrade Pashin.'

'Both.'

Elizaveta nodded and the firm lines of her face softened. 'Love is not the best guide, my dear. It makes us do things that . . .' She shrugged eloquently.

Sofia laughed. 'That are not always wise?'

'Exactly.'

'I'll take that risk.'

'Rafik has taken a risk trusting you, a stranger.' She held up a hand impatiently. 'No, don't tell me you're his niece because I don't believe it. But . . .' she paused and studied Sofia's face, 'Rafik has abilities that are beyond our understanding and I trust his instinct.'

'Thank you.'

'So I will tell you what I think happened last night, if you wish.'

Sofia leaned closer. 'Please,' she said.

'You have to understand that Rafik has an extraordinary mind. Whether the skills he possesses are self-taught or inherited from his gypsy ancestry, who's to say?'

'Is it hypnotism?'

'It's more than that, I believe. He has a power of mind that can transcend the thoughts of others and manipulate them, but it's at a cost to himself. He once told me it causes haemorrhages inside his skull.'

Sofia shivered. There was a brittle silence in the room. Outside, the sound of children's laughter belonged to a different world.

'So you help him, is that it?' Sofia said quietly. 'You and the blacksmith and Zenia, to lessen the damage he does to himself?'

'Yes.'

'So why choose me?'

'I don't know. You must ask Rafik that question. Each night he spins what he calls a thread of protection around the village, pacing out a circle. He says if he could pace round the whole of Russia, he would.'

Sofia smiled. 'He's a good man, but has he really helped Tivil?'

'Good G.o.d, yes. We're still alive, aren't we? Other villages all around us have been decimated by famine and sucked dry by troops enforcing quotas, until sometimes no children at all have survived. Listen to ours.' The shouts of the Young Pioneers at play made them both smile. 'Tivil is still standing,' Elizaveta said proudly.

'With your help.'

'I have no idea whether the input of someone like myself, a dethroned tsarist, or of that G.o.dless reprobate Pokrovsky provides any help or not in those ceremonies. But . . .' she paused and rubbed two fingertips against her temples, 'sometimes I feel things. In here.' Her long fingers traced circles on her transparent skin. 'When I'm with Rafik, I do believe.' She shook her head and her voice grew stronger, more certain. 'I hope that helps.'

'So you believe the strange ceremony last night with all five of us might have created enough power of . . . some mysterious kind . . . to cause Mikhail's release?'

'It might. Oh, call it a miracle or call it a freak coincidence if you prefer, but the point is that Comrade Pashin was released.'

She rose to her feet and Sofia understood that the conversation was over.

'One last thing,' Sofia said quickly. 'Tell me, please . . .' she hesitated, as a roll-top desk in the corner caught her eye. It was made of exquisite satinwood and the top wasn't quite closed. Just visible were a square inkpad, an ink stamp and what looked like a large magnifying gla.s.s. 'Tell me whether you know anything about a hut in the forest that-'

'There are many huts up there that hunters use,' Elizaveta interrupted brusquely. She walked over to the desk and pushed it shut. 'I know nothing about huts. Ask the blacksmith, he's the one who's often roaming around up there - when he's out hunting, I mean.'

Sofia watched her and noted the teacher's unease. Was it the desk? Had she seen something she shouldn't?

'In that case I'll speak to Pokrovsky,' Sofia said, moving towards the door. 'Thank you for your time, comrade.'

They smiled at each other. Enough had been said.

The smithy looked like the Devil's workshop. Great sparks leapt and twisted through the air that rang with the thunder of hammer blows on metal. As Sofia entered the dim interior she felt her bones vibrate and her teeth ache with it, but the blacksmith was grinning from ear to ear, relishing every swing of his ma.s.sive hammer like Thor himself. He was working on a thick iron pole. It glowed scarlet at one end where it was being flattened to a point.

'Comrade Pokrovsky,' she called out. She squeezed it in between blows.

He paused mid-swing, hammer head poised high above his shoulder in a position that would have sent most people toppling over backwards. The smith was wearing a thick leather ap.r.o.n over a sleeveless tunic and his naked shaven scalp glistened with sweat. The sight of him made Sofia smile. Here was a man who loved his work. Now that the reverberations had stopped, she realised he was singing an old army marching song and wielding his hammer to its rhythm.

He lowered it easily on to the anvil and stared at Sofia with surprise. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?' He wiped the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his beefy hand. His teeth were as big as the rest of him but so white that Sofia wondered if they might be false.

'Comrade Lishnikova suggested I speak with you.'

His dark eyes sparked with interest. 'About last night?'

'No. About a hut.'

The change in him was instant and the easy manner vanished. 'What hut?'

'A hut I found up in the forest.' She added cautiously, 'In a clearing a few versts north-west of here. I was-'

'Stay away from huts, comrade.' He stepped towards her, his tree-trunk arms swinging loose. 'I'm warning you.'

'Warning me of what?'

'Of not sticking your nose in places that-'

'Comrade Pokrovsky, I already know what's in that hut and who goes there.'

He dragged air noisily through his teeth and his barrel chest swelled. She took a step away from him, before she could stop herself. His intimidating presence acted like a physical pressure on her, even though he hadn't actually touched her.

'Stay away from the hut,' he growled.