The Benefactor Index: Chapter Five - Swans to the Snow

Throughout November, I will be participating in National Novel Writing Month, where the aim is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.

~

The Benefactor Index

By Sam Redlark

Prologue - A Sin of Gold
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old

~

Chapter Five – Swans to the snow

image generated by Craiyon

A fleet of paddling geese were crossing the river, invading the reflection of a row of skeletal windmills. The ripples generated by the advancing armada had divided the after-image of the man-made structures into untidy arcing cross-sections that spread, like an imperfect echo of the industrial past, between the dirty clods of snow and ice, clinging to either foreshore.

The mills were tall, gradually-tapering scaffolds. Towards the top of each tower, a square platform, that was accessible by a wooden staircase, surrounded the internal framework. The sails were short wooden panels, clinging to the barren spokes of a rotor; a few barely hanging on, while others were missing altogether. Some of the mills possessed as many as seven, while, on another, only four remained. 

They lined the summit of the sloping embankment like the tall ruins of sunflowers.

When a bend in the snowy road changed the orientation of the headlights, the reflections dimmed like match heads. The flock of geese reverted to the murky silhouette of a many-headed chimera.

“We will go for Katin, the railwayman,” said Garin. “He is near here.”

He took a final glance at he windmills, pondering on why some were pointed towards the heavens, while others faced towards the ground.

'It is the choice of the wind,' he concluded.

“When he have him, the first thing we will do is bind his hands with something,” he said.

“There are cuffs in the back,” said Orlov. “I considered taking a pair earlier.”

“With keys?

“I will look when we stop.”

They passed a faded wooden billboard. Writing along the top announced that they were approaching Orchard Row. A washed-out background painting showed an idealised scene of happy workers, picking a bountiful fruit crop from trees that stretched into the distant horizon of a misty Summer day.

'They included the fog,' he thought. 'That is the grain of truth in the lie. The deception is that it was ever beautiful.'

Beyond the sign, the herded silhouettes of partly-built apartment blocks crowded the landscape.

“I was on army truck that broke down near here,” said Orlov. “Some of us went in search of apples. That sign is bullshit. There are no orchards for miles.”

Garin continued to stare out of the window.

“That is where the photo was taken,” he murmured. “The framed picture in Yubkin's luggage. I should have brought it along.”

They were flagged to a standstill by a huddle of soldiers on the east side of a girder bridge. A convoy of tanks and armoured vehicles were crossing in the opposite direction. A man whose upper body was protruding from the open hatch of one of the tanks, did a double take when he caught sight of Orlov behind the wheel of the police van.

“It is Gerasim,” said Orlov. “This is the 147th mixed in with some other division.”

“They are going to war without you,” said Pestov. “It is likely the accuracy of the unit will improve in your absence.”

“They are headed to the winter garrison at Uzbselt,” said Orlov. “And I can hit a target as well as any man,”

“Tell that to the poor teddy bear slain in error and left with the other bodies.”

“It will deepen the mystery for whoever investigates the scene,” said Orlov. “What did this teddy bear know that made him the target of assassins?”

“There will be no mystery,” said Garin. “With Yubkin I will tell Chendev the events accurately in the order they took place. In the case of Muratov, we may have to forget certain facts, but Chendev will know anyway. It will be a dance. We will move by mutual agreement according to a predetermined set of steps.”

“Then I hope for all our sakes you will be an accommodating dance partner,” said Orlov.

They were entering the suburbs of Moscow.

“Aim for the big yellow tit,” said Garin, indicating a yellow circus dome on the skyline. “We will have a drink and get our heads in line before we continue.”

They were driving in the slow lane along a wide boulevard. Each of the slender lampposts, that lined the central reservation, divided into opposing arcs just above their midpoint, casting seagull-shaped shadows onto the tire-rucked snow. A few feathery flakes drifted around aimlessly in the partial darkness and the silty diesel fumes.

“We are heading to Shelyapin Park?” enquired Orlov.

“There are many places there,” said Garin.

A diminutive blue camper van, with a pair of tiny headlamps studding the extremities of the space above bumper, suddenly veered across the road towards them. Orlov blasted a few seconds of the siren. The driver hit the brakes. The camper skidded to a halt askew across one lane, facing in the wrong direction. The panicked young man stared through his side window as the police van drew level. Orlov turned his head. Slowly and censoriously, he wagged his finger.

In the rear-view mirror he watched the camper's tailpipe sputter back to life. Seconds later, it accelerated away wildly away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, its thin, tread-less tires failing to the find grip in the snow.

He took them off the avenue and into the fringes of a park, where an expanse of snow-covered grass had been carved-up by a system of roads.

Along the border of one these islands there was a dark-orange kiosk, bordered with white trim. Behind a long window, with rounded corners, a pair of women, dressed in winter coats, scarves and pointed knitted hats, were leaning up against a counter, talking to one another.

“How about this one?” said Pestov.

“That is Popsi,” said Orlov. “It is the State knock-off of Pepsi. There is a reason there are no customers.”

“Pepsi is for virgins and American cheerleaders,” said Garin.

“I am happy to supply both of these groups with as much of it as they can drink,” said Orlov. “Given the choice, I prefer the real thing.”

“The real thing is Coke,” said Garin.

They parked nearby, in the road, between a pair of snowy fields.

“Are you ready to take the Popsi Challenge?” asked Garin.

“I am saving the experience for my next wedding night,” said Orlov. “It is important to preserve some sense of mystery. Why is it so hard for you to admit that there are some things that the West does better. Not all things, but some things.”

“It does matter when the foundation is rotten,” answered Garin. “It is only a question of when the building will cave in.”

They followed a column of street lights deeper into the park, towards some distant music. Orlov's pushed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, where his fingers chanced upon the small bottle of nail gold varnish. He took it out and examined it as they walked. Behind the curved glass, the glitter kindled like trapped stars under the electric lights.

A group of young soldiers approaching from the opposite direction moved into the middle of the empty road when the they say the trio, keeping their heads down. As they passed Garin observed watery ribbons of blue-grey camouflage paint covering their faces.

“New fish,” said Pestov. He grinned internally, clenching his teeth behind his lips.

“Their girlfriends will not like it,” said Orlov. "In my experience women do not find this kind of thing attractive."

“What is this?” asked Garin.

“It is the dye in the hats,” said Pestov. “When you first get one, it runs down the face and stains the skin for months. It is why no-one in the army wants to lose their hat and be given a new one.”

“These boys return from wherever they have been, thinking they are men now and will be taken seriously,” said Orlov. “The presence of the dye reveals their inexperience to the world. Their girls will not want to be seen with them. They will look elsewhere.”

“We have all been there,” he added. “Anyone who has been in the army.”

Outside the main gates to the park interior, a pair of kiosks that had been pushed against each other, were dispensing soup. The taller of the two booths seemed to be drawing more customers.

Nearby, on an area of the pavement that had been mostly cleared of snow, some young men were dancing, one at a time, around a silver ghetto-blaster that was playing Russian pop music. The bright floodlights above the gates shone down from overhead. Each dancer remained within the cheering, clapping circle for around a half a minute before he was tagged out and replaced by one of his friends. A row of snow shovels, leaning against the park wall, were clad in items of clothing that had been cast off by members of the group.

A cluster of carnival rides and attractions occupied a snow-covered area just inside the park gates. Behind a low waffle fence, a squadron of spacecraft, modelled on designs from early 20th century science fiction, were jolting along in a circuitous procession, around a metal rail that was shaped like a ladder lying on its side. Inside the cockpits, children waved at their parents, or shifted around in their seats, their attention already having drifted elsewhere.

“They train cosmonauts early,” said Orlov.

Garin lifted his gaze to the heavens where an outface moon was showing through the clouds.

“We outgun the Americans on the lunar surface and they know it,” he said.

“Because we buried a Kalashnikov up there?” said Pestov, as they walked on.

Behind the temporary fairground, a more established, play-worn set of spartan climbing frames protruded from the snow, like an airbrushed recreation of the skeleton of some large and extinct animal. A few children were excitedly chasing each other around in the semi darkness. Their parents were gathered around the serving window of a kiosk, where a collection of glass tankards lined a short protruding shelf.

Parked away from the laddered arcs of the climbing frames, a wheel-less truck, made entirely from wood, and tethered to a fenced trailer, was marooned in a snowdrift. Behind the planking of the radiator grill, a pair of young boys, swaddled in coast and scarves, were sitting side-by-side in the cab, pretending to drive.

Nearby, a boy in a hooded anorak sat alone inside the cockpit of a sheet metal abstraction of a helicopter. The main rotor and the tail rotor were strips of metal that had been bent into elongated figures of eight. A double sheet of fresh newspaper covered one of the open sides.

Orlov wandered over. He kicked some of the snow away from around the back of the helicopter. It seemed to be loosely bolted to concrete blocks that were sunk into the ground.

“Isiof, get over here,” he called.

Squatting down in front of the open windshield, he asked the boy.

“Little man, do you want to fly like a real pilot?”

The boy nodded dumbly.

Pestov had come over.

“Get over on that side,” said Orlov. “We are going to lift this thing up and inspect its airworthiness.”

“We are joke soldiers,” said Pestov as he made his way around.

Together, they took hold of the frame and braced themselves to raise it up. Orlov briefly let go. He snatched away the sheet of newspaper sending it tumbling upright across the snow as if it was attempting to assume an abstract human form. Where it had been, he could a jagged piece of metal protruding up from the base of the frame where a piece of the helicopter had been wrenched away.

“Stay on that side of the cockpit away from the sharp metal,” he said to the boy.

He resumed his grip on the side of the grounded aircraft.

“Don't be scared,” he said. “Hold on tight when we are in the air.”

He glanced over at Pestov.

“Are you ready?” he said.

“Let's get this done, so we can do some proper work,” answered Pestov.

“We have done enough proper work for one night,” said Orlov. “After three.”

At the top of the count the two heaved upward. The helicopter came away from its foundation far easier than the men had anticipated.

“It is lighter than it looks,” said Orlov, as they began to jog around the field, holding the aircraft a few feet above the snow.

“Are you okay in there, little man,” said Orlov, through the side window.

The boy nodded as he stared straight ahead. His gloved hands gripped the metal steering column tightly.

The other children had stopped their game to watch the spectacle. As the helicopter came around they began to run as an excited group alongside and behind it. The boys occupying the wooden truck remained sandwiched together in the cab, unmoved, as part of the playground was brought to life.

“That piece of play equipment has been condemned by the Parks Committee,” yelled an elderly woman with a dark perm, through the serving window of the kiosk.

“Be quiet you old bird, you are interfering with military business,” panted Orlov, his breath fogging the air ahead of him.

“I will call the police,” shouted the woman.

“We are the police!” yelled Orlov.

A timid, middle-aged man drew Garin's attention by touching him lightly on the arm.

“Excuse me, sir. You are with those two men?”

Garin nodded.

"That is my son, in the helicopter,” said the man.

“I know these men, they will not hurt your boy,” said Garin. “See they are bringing him into land.”

As soon as the helicopter skids made contact with the snow, the boy sprang out. He ran towards his parents beaming where he was gathered up in the arms of his mother.

“You had an adventure,” she said.

The other children had gathered around the helicopter and were scrambling to be next.

“Free helicopter rides for all Soviet children!” yelled Orlov.

Shortly after, the helicopter took flight again, with a new pilot behind the controls.

Garin allowed them to run wild for ten minutes. When the game showed no signs of ending, he called out:

“We have to cut this short.”

The two panting soldiers brought the aircraft to a landing beside the kiosk.

“Which of you men will take over our flight school?” said Orlov.

A handful of volunteers presented themselves.

“There is a sharp piece of metal there,” said Orlov.

“I have a spare glove that I picked up earlier,” said one of the men.

He produced it from his pocket and pushed it down over the shard, so that it appeared, from a distance, as if someone was waving from the bottom of the helicopter.

“You feel better?” said Garin to the two men, as they walked away from the playground, both still somewhat out of breath.

“I feel like I need a drink,” said Orlov. “A proper one.”

“Every so often I do something that I know is good,” said Pestov.

Far away in the distance, there was another line kiosks and a few small buildings. A crooked trail of exposed grass, about a foot wide, led towards it, dividing the snowfield.

“It is an underground heating pipe,” said Garin. “It feels good through the boots.”

They advanced in crooked single file until they reached a broad pedestrianised avenue made from maroon tiles.

“This whole road is underheated,” exclaimed Orlov. "Why is there nothing like this where I am?"

“They should do it for all off Moscow,” said Pestov.

The cube-shaped building that they had used as a guiding landmark turned out to be the small branch of a bank that had closed many hours before. Fantasy art paintings in gold frames were displayed intermittently along a succession of stone outer sills, propped-up against the walls and windows. A man wearing a brown, fur-trimmed coat was attempting to sell them to passers-by.

He grabbed a painting at random from the line-up and jogged alongside a couple who were walking arm in arm, giving his sales spiel. The boyfriend tightened his grip around his girl, guiding her away to the far side of the pavement.

“Nobody wants airbrushed painting of Amazon woman in tight shorts, chokeholding lilac unicorn,” said Orlov sadly.

“It is too pure an image for this world,” said Garin.

Next to the bank, a kiosk was decorated in Pepsi Cola livery.

Orlov wandered over to the end of the short queue and shouted some words at the man behind the counter. The man shouted some words back.

He returned to Pestov and Garin.

“They do not do vodka there,” he said. “He says maybe one of those places down there.”

He pointed to a rows of kiosks further along the avenue, where the crowds were thicker. A man-sized balloon that resembled a bear with round mouse ears rose up behind the booths, where it was held aloft by a loose, multi-coloured cluster of normal-size helium-filled balloons.

“Let's go,” said Garin. “It is on our way back to the van anyway.

They arrived at a second Pepsi kiosk, where there was a long queue. On the roof, a TV aerial was garnished with strategically-placed, folk charms that were supposed to improve the reception from particular stations, and to allow for the clear interception of scrambled signals. Close-by, a hunched Romany woman was selling similar looking charms from a tapering wicker basket that was slung across her shoulder on a leather strap. She pointed any fence-sitting customers toward the small colour TV that occupied a rear shelf in the kiosk, as proof of the quality of her wares.

Orlov pushed his way to the front to the queue.

“You have vodka?” he said, as he caught sight of a row of bottles.

The man behind the counter did not raise his balding head. He continued to focus through his round glasses, on the bottle that he held by the neck, with his thumb pressed over the opening, adding a measure of vodka to each bubbling beaker of Pepsi in the line in front of him.

“You must return to the back of the queue and wait for your turn,” he said.

“My friends and I are on urgent government business,” said Orlov. “We do not have time to stand around here all night.”

“Then it is possible that you do have time to drink vodka and Pepsi cola,” said the man.

Behind the booth the bear balloon leered over the heads of the crowd.

Orlov reported what had been said to Garin and Pestov.

“The crowd was becoming hostile,” he said.

“Some are still looking in our direction,” observed Garin.

At the end of the line of kiosks there stood a compact mansion. The walls were pale yellow and embellished with quoining at the corners. Tall windows lined the three floors. Abundant chimney stacks protruded neatly from the mansard roof. It was known by some as the Worker's Palace and had once been the servants quarters of a sprawling royal residence. The other buildings had long since been pulled down and a park created around what remained.

“I will go and check indoors,” said Orlov.

Around the side of the building, a huddle of bodies crowded a metal staircase leading to an open door, a few feet above the ground.

“What is this queue for?” he asked.

“It is for vodka,” said an old man.

“Can the queue be made shorter for serving members of the armed forces?”

“I was in the army for forty years,” said the man. “I wait with the rest of them.”

Orlov made his further around to the rear of the building. He knew there was a bar in the basement and had a vague recollection of having visited there once, while on leave.

He descended to the bottom of a staircase.

“I am in 147th. I am having a bad day,” he said to the man on the door.

The man pushed the door open for him.

“If later I have to come inside and drag you out, they will find your body in the river,” he said.

Orlov entered a large, crowded room. There were tables here and there and meandering layout of back-to-back booths with leatherette seating. A particularly crowded spot may have been a dance floor. Music was playing loudly. It sounded like western pop until he listened harder and heard Russian words poking through the veneer. Shiny silver globes, the size of footballs, dangled from the ceiling, each holding a miniaturised arcing reflection of the crowd below. Alongside him, a group of men, dressed in suits, were sitting at a round table playing a game that involved assortment of six-sided dice housed under a plastic dome in the centre. One of them was slumped forward on his elbows with his hands in his short, curly hair. The man seated to his left had buried his eyes and nose in one hand in despair.

“So it is in this way empires are lost,” said Orlov, under his breath.

He walked to the bar. A man wearing a tuxedo and a bow-tie was using what appeared to be the nozzle of a fire extinguisher to add a blast of frosty vapour to a glass. Hastily he covered the rim with a coaster before the gas could escape. He set the glass down in front of a man who picked it up, slid back the improvised lid and drew the contents into his mouth in a single deep inhalation. For a few seconds afterward, the man stood on the spot with his head tilted as far backwards as it would go and his mouth open.

“Please, what is that you are drinking?” enquired Orlov.

The man returned his head to its normal position.

“It is what God is to some men,” he said.

“It is vodka vapour,” said the barman. “I can tell by looking at you, you cannot afford it.”

“I will be taking my vodka as a liquid,” said Orlov. “In a bottle, if you have it.”

He put some roubles down on the counter-top.

“Only dollars are good here,” said the barman.

Orlov rummaged around in his pockets and eventually produced a handful of dollar bills.

The barman took one and ran a handheld violet-coloured light over it, before pushing it back towards the soldier.

“We only take neon bills,” he said. “No counterfeit dollars, even good ones or Cuban standard.”

“This is not counterfeit,” said Orlov.

“You need to confirm it at the bank,” said the barman. “You need a cashier's signature in invisible ink on each note. It will show under the light.”

“I cannot believe this night,” said Orlov.

“There is a bank nearby,” said the bartender.

“It is past midnight. It is closed.”

“Wait for it to open, then come back.”

“This is your suggestion for me?” said Orlov.

“Or go and stand at the end of the bar and inhale the cocktail fumes if you want,” said the barman. “I do not care.”

~

Orlov returned from his expedition to find Garin and Pestov standing on the edge of the avenue drinking Pepsi from glass beer-steins. He picked up a full tankard that was resting in the snow and sniffed the surface.

“It is enriched?”

Garin shook his head.

“If I die sober there will be hell to pay,” Orlov grumbled.

He raised the glass to his lips and swallowed the contents in a succession of long, breathless gulps.

When he was done, he handed the stein to Pestov.

“I am going to find a quiet place to piss,” he said. “he crossed over the avenue and disappeared behind the kiosks.

A minute later, the bear balloon began to lift off, trailing its guyrope across the snowy ground. Some people in the crowd began to yell. A few were laughing. A small girl pointed at the departing balloon and burst into tears. The man in the Pepsi kiosk dashed out through the back door of the cabin in pursuit but he too late. He stood watching his prize disappear into the night sky.

Orlov returned, having come the long way around.

“Mouse bear has been liberated,” he said. “Restitution for unfortunate past mistakes involving other bears has been made.”

“The Air-Force will shoot it down when it enters military space,” said Garin.

“Then you will be responsible for the untimely deaths of two bears,” said Pestov.

“He will die a free bear,” said Orlov.

They walked back to the van. The blizzard had restarted and the air was filled with downy flakes.

Along the way they passed a group of four small children, sitting on a row of seven unripe pumpkins in the snow.

“Are we centred in our thoughts?” said Garin. “We must put what has happened behind us and move forward.”

In that moment several loud bangs from deeper inside the park prompted Orlov and Pestov to half draw their guns. A man dressed in a long coat was running across a snowy expanse. A bunch of coloured balloons trailing from the ends of strings behind him were bursting, one after the other.

“Someone is shooting at him,” Orlov speculated. “He has been caught working someone else's patch.”

“It is the snowflakes and the cold  that is doing the work,” said Garin.

He turned and walked on.

image generated by Craiyon