The Benefactor Index: Chapter Four - Street without drums
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.
A man and a woman, swaddled in heavy coats, scarves and hats were pushing an over-laden bicycle on foot, along the centre of the darkened road. Both of them had to fight to keep to keep the heavy frame upright and the thin wheels turning in the snow.
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.
~
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 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 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 Four – Street without drums
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| image generated by Craiyon |
“Where in the hell are those two going?” said Orlov, as the headlamps fell across the pair.
He slowed down to a near standstill and waited for them to move. When they failed to do so, he sounded the horn.
The man, who was bringing up the rear of the bicycle, steadying a heavy sack that lay draped over the saddle, glanced over his shoulder. He seemed surprised as if he had only just noticed the van that was creeping behind them. He spoke some words to the woman who was dragging the bike by its handlebars. Together the pair separated their burden from the road and set off uphill on a diagonal course through the drifting snow.
“Where are they going now, I wonder?” said Garin.
“I think we have just seen a pair of ghosts,” said Orlov.
“Ghost or idiots. It is hard to tell sometimes.”
“They are unable to officially confirm their own deaths,” said Orlov. “They are chasing after the bureaucracy.”
Ahead, a fenced bridge, constructed entirely from sawn logs, spanned a creek that was no more than a few feet wide. As they rumbled over, Garin stared down from the passenger window. The front part of a kayak was emerging as a silhouette from underneath the low arch. As soon as they were over, Orlov put his foot down on the accelerator. Garin pressed his face up to the glass and cast a strained backwards glance towards the stream. The canoer, who had been forced to bend down while passing under the bridge was working themselves upright.
To their right, removed from the road, a white octagonal bell tower, rose from the brick ruin of a medieval church. The tall, rounded archways that opened-up each of the eight sides to the elements looked out across the landscape like the empty eye sockets of a multi-faceted skull. A rickety fight of wooden steps emerged from the snowdrifts and ascended to a darkened, flattened arched window high up in the wall of the older building.
“Pestov had fallen asleep. His head nodded with the motion of the vehicle.
“Take the next turning,” said Garin. “It is the longer route but the road is wider and more up to date.”
“The army road?” confirmed Orlov. “Let us hope that we don't run into a convoy.”
Soon after, he steered the van onto a descending ramp, joining a broad road that was dimly illuminated by modern street lighting. The snow had melted and turned to furrows of grey slush.
“The army have already been through here tonight,” said Garin.
They were beginning to move into the modern suburbs of the city – a landscape that was both in transition and seemingly already in ruins, where the vestiges of an older rural existence rubbed up against the detritus of a failed urban experiment. A horned black and white cow stared blankly at them from a snowy depression that had been seeded with unwanted household items, rising out of the drifts like objects that had been tossed over the rail of a ship. In the background, lines of tower cranes stood frozen on the spot, looming over the ugly low-rise apartment blocks that they had pulled up from the ground. A column of electricity pylons galloped across the undulating wintry landscape, lacing together the separate halves of the night sky.
A sound like a metallic drum roll from up ahead, drew the eyes of both men towards the opposite lanes. A large group of men were pushing a trio of oil drums through the slush, keeping pace with each other. They shouted and waved jovially at the police van as it went by.
“A tank has run out of fuel probably,” remarked Orlov.
Pestov awoke and irritably rubbed his eyes.
“Where are we?” he croaked.
“Close to Dovurizber,” replied Orlov.
“You can see it over there,” said Garin, indicating a sprawling castle-shaped ruin on the horizon. The road takes us around the back.”
“I killed a man,” said Pestov.
“You killed a minister,” said Orlov. “If you had only killed a man it would not be so much of a problem."
He changed lanes to avoid the site of a recent road accident: A pair of cars; one with a crumpled front corner; the other with a caved-in rear door. Tire grooves in the deep slush traced the converging trajectories of the two vehicles.
“We will have to go back into the lanes at the next stelae,” said Garin.
A few minutes later, Orlov spotted it, rising from the crest of a low ridge – a trio of wooden beams, lashed together at the top to make a wigwam shape. They were encircled a third of the way down by part of an old factory turbine. The faded writing around the pale-blue circumference was no longer legible. A string of multi-coloured bunting had been woven into the honeycomb gaps in the metalwork. The flags flapped uselessly up and down like a trapped animal, unable to free itself, slowly exhausting its reserves of energy.
At the bottom of the slope, the turning was marked by an open-sided wooden shelter. An inverted plank fence fringed the space two feet beneath the overhang of the corrugated roof. The entire structure had been stained a vivid pale blue and decorated with painted-on red and white flowers and bunches of red grapes. A painted panorama stretching across the planking of the back wall depicted a distant chain of peaks, overlooking verdant plains that were fractured by the jagged lightning pathways of a network of blue streams. The centre of the terracotta tiled floor was branded by a large, multi-coloured bullseye.
Orlov rounded the corner, taking them off the main road. The colossal silhouette of the orphanage moved around on the horizon as they meandered towards it.
“The Rotunda will be coming up soon on your left.” said Garin.
A few minutes later Orlov caught sight of it, shored up on a bank, a good distance from the roadside. It was, he had heard, a place where relaxed gatherings were held for Party officials. The ground floor was a rectangular plinth with a small colonnaded portico protruding from the entrance. An arched culvert underneath the porch formed a dark void. The bottom level of the building was crowned by a pair of circular tiers, the second storey half the size of the one underneath. Both were overshadowed by flaring leaded roofs, supported by thin pillars that paraded around the circumference of the balcony rails.
“The road will straighten in a moment,” said Garin.
The blocky edifice of Dovurizber State Orphanage slowly took form ahead of them, at first as a murky silhouette that steadily grew in size and definition as they drew closer, until it utterly dominated the horizon. It was a rambling five or six storey building consisting of flat roofs and hard angles. Here and there, a corner, or a centrepiece, would rise to form an imposing square tower that was almost as tall as its foundation.
The van crept between a gigantic pair of frosted iron-bar gates that appeared to have been wrenched open using heavy machinery. They were now listing slightly, at unmatched angles, on multiple sets of twisted hinges. The floors of the main entrance were lined with narrow windows. The second storey was dominated by a cut-off arch that had been been glazed with tiny square panes. A windowless block protruded from the centre of the roof. As the dipped headlights of the van began to ascend the lower walls, they saw the tone of the bricks – an uneven reddish-black, the colour of blood, congealing over a wound.
“This is an orphanage?" said Pestov. “It looks like a prison.”
“It is one of the great factories of the Soviet Union,” answered Garin, in a tone that gave no indication as to whether he approved or not.
“It is like the ruin of a castle that forgets its shape at night,” said Pestov.
Orlov patted him on the shoulder.
“You have the soul of a poet. Maybe it would be a better career for you.”
A white chicken feather, lifted itself off of one their coats. If drifted around the cab, over the dashboard for a few seconds before resettling somewhere out of sight.
“Let's get this done,” said Garin.
He opened the door. Orlov yawned, then followed suit on his side of the van.
They loitered in the snow, pointing with the weak beams of their torches, each man surveying a different part of the immense building.
“This place is massive. We could be here all night,” said Orlov.
“Scout around. Look for lights in any windows,” said Garin.
They moved as a group along the front, until they reached a service road that probed deeper into the labyrinthine structure. At a junction, Pestov's attention was drawn towards a looming corner tower that cast an oblique shadow across the end of a short vista. On one of the upper floors, a pair of the narrow, arch-shaped windows has been scabbed over with a tight-knit screen of grey brick, repairing a collapse in the blood-coloured façade.
“Dead end,” he said.
Orlov had discovered a narrow, snow-filled alley that stretched between a pair of low cement buildings. A square wire grid bridged the slender gap between the roofs of the two structures, sealing off the conduit below. A set of corroded metal doors were spaced intermittently along the wall of one of the buildings. The soldier turned himself partly sideways and began to shuffle along the alleyway, testing each entrance in turn. The doors were rusted into their frames. After the third attempt he gave up and returned to the others.
They moved on. Behind a tangle of barbed wire, a rickety wooden structure, that resembled the cabin of tower crane, clung preciously to the side of a low building, at the summit of a slanted metal staircase. A pair of poorly-framed, side by side windows looked out from the tiny compartment onto a small courtyard. The narrow, glassless windows lining the walls of a more substantial block in the background were barred from top to bottom like the doors to prison cells.
They had reached a part of the orphanage that was from a more modern era than its entrance, but no less ruinous. A pair of gently-arcing, grubby white buildings, constructed from a combination of brick and rough cement, ran parallel with each other. Short lengths of corridor periodically bridged the wide gap between the upper floors. The roadway below appeared to be disused and was overgrown with clumps of tall weeds that sprouted from the base of the foundations and poked through the snow. Badly corroded drainpipes, clinging vertically to the walls, were in the process of separating into sheets of rust covered by a flaking skin of white emulsion. Above the sealed doorways, a strata of insulted wiring formed untidy seams along the grimy plasterwork, or draped down from the sides of the building like empty washing lines.
“There is a light,” said Pestov.
He pointed high up to his left: “Over there.”
“That is back where we came,” said Orlov.
“It is in the main entrance, but around the back,” said Garin. “What floor is it? Third floor or fourth floor, I think.”
“It is the fourth floor,” said Pestov.
They walked back the way they had come, until the window light was lost from view. A pale glow illuminated the snow ahead of them. When they rounded the corner they stopped in their tracks.
The entire front entrance of the building was now fully illuminated.
“Somebody is waking up,” said Garin.
They made their way back to the van. Pestov shone the beam of his torch onto some new sets of footprints that encircled the vehicle.
“We have received visitors in our absence,” he said.
“How many,” said Garin, kneeling down to take a closer look. He touched the inside of one of the prints with a gloved finger. “Two or maybe three.”
Orlov tried the handles of all the doors and found them still locked.
“Check the bodywork,” said Garin.
They paced around the van several times. Pestov crouched down and angled his torch underneath at different angles.
“Check the bodywork,” said Garin.
They paced around the van several times. Pestov crouched down and angled his torch underneath at different angles.
“No obvious bombs,” he said.
“We will go in through the front door,” said Garin. “Both of you be on your guard.”
He turned to Pestov.
“If you see a woman, do not shoot her. Chendev wants to talk with her for some reason.”
The doors to the main entrance were unlocked.
“Look for a flight of stairs,” instructed Garin, his voice echoing slightly.
They entered a corridor-shaped room with tall windows along one side. A blocky, herringbone wood floor stretched ahead of them. Long rows of wooden chairs with looping backrests lined the entirety of both walls. Overhead, a trio of electric chandeliers, encircled by incandescent globes of glass, dangled from multiple chains in a well-spaced procession. The perimeter of the ceiling was trimmed with ornate plasterwork.
The doors to the main entrance were unlocked.
“Look for a flight of stairs,” instructed Garin, his voice echoing slightly.
They entered a corridor-shaped room with tall windows along one side. A blocky, herringbone wood floor stretched ahead of them. Long rows of wooden chairs with looping backrests lined the entirety of both walls. Overhead, a trio of electric chandeliers, encircled by incandescent globes of glass, dangled from multiple chains in a well-spaced procession. The perimeter of the ceiling was trimmed with ornate plasterwork.
At the far end, they passed underneath a wide, open archway, into a similarly-shaped, but more austere, dining room that was lined with tables and bench seating on either side. Stacks of chinaware, glasses and a serving tureens, that resembled small cauldrons, were arranged neatly on the white cloths, at the aisle-facing ends of each table. Simple candle-bulb lights, suspended inside round wire frames were evenly spaced along the centre of the ceiling.
As they moved through the room, Orlov paused to peer inside one of the tureens. He picked up a serving ladle and carried it with him for a few steps, slapping the deep spoon against his palm before returning it the one of the tables.
They passed under another archway into a square hall. A wooden staircase, with a trail of green carpet flowing down the centre of the steps, scaled the perimeter of the wall. They climbed to the fourth floor, the boards creaking up their feet. Orlov plucked one of many chicken feathers from the arm of his coat and dropped in over the bannister, following its idly-drifting descent until he could no longer see it.
They emerged onto a corridor lined by partly-opened doors. From somewhere in the distance they could hear the low sawing of a cello.
A line of three upholstered chairs, with stained flip-up seats, that looked like they had been taken out of a cinema, were bolted to the floor and the wall by their white wooden frame.
“This is familiar,” grinned Orlov.
“How so?” enquired Pestov.
“This is where they would sit you down to wait after you had been sentenced to a caning. You did not have something like this in your school?”
“I avoided activities that I knew would result in a caning,” said Pestov.
Orlov moved one of the creaking seats up and down. He squatted and smelled the maroon upholstery.
They emerged onto a corridor lined by partly-opened doors. From somewhere in the distance they could hear the low sawing of a cello.
A line of three upholstered chairs, with stained flip-up seats, that looked like they had been taken out of a cinema, were bolted to the floor and the wall by their white wooden frame.
“This is familiar,” grinned Orlov.
“How so?” enquired Pestov.
“This is where they would sit you down to wait after you had been sentenced to a caning. You did not have something like this in your school?”
“I avoided activities that I knew would result in a caning,” said Pestov.
Orlov moved one of the creaking seats up and down. He squatted and smelled the maroon upholstery.
"The smell of fear," he said. “Violence plays an important role in building the character of a young man. It motivates him to develop strategies that will discourage any further acts of violence against him. Either he becomes strong or cunning. Sometimes even both.”
He perused the bubbled glass pane in an adjacent door.
“Here is the headmaster's office,” he said.
He pushed open the door, while covering the expanding opening with his pistol.
The green-walled room beyond was decorated with a diagonal grid of chequerboard tiles. The only item of furniture was a high-backed swivel chair, clad in a velveteen orange-brown patterned fabric. It was facing slightly away from the door.
“The headmaster has gone home for the day,” announced Orlov.
They moved along the corridor in the direction of the music, checking the rooms on either side, while one of them covered the passageway. A tapering wooden ladder had been propped up against the floor to ceiling recessed cupboards of a small lecture theatre. The pale-green wall at the rear of the classroom was papered with a collage of pencilled self portraits that varied in quality.
“This girl is crying hair,” said Orlov, indicating the scribbled shading under the eyes of one of the subjects.
He perused the bubbled glass pane in an adjacent door.
“Here is the headmaster's office,” he said.
He pushed open the door, while covering the expanding opening with his pistol.
The green-walled room beyond was decorated with a diagonal grid of chequerboard tiles. The only item of furniture was a high-backed swivel chair, clad in a velveteen orange-brown patterned fabric. It was facing slightly away from the door.
“The headmaster has gone home for the day,” announced Orlov.
They moved along the corridor in the direction of the music, checking the rooms on either side, while one of them covered the passageway. A tapering wooden ladder had been propped up against the floor to ceiling recessed cupboards of a small lecture theatre. The pale-green wall at the rear of the classroom was papered with a collage of pencilled self portraits that varied in quality.
“This girl is crying hair,” said Orlov, indicating the scribbled shading under the eyes of one of the subjects.
The room nextdoor housed a small, sparsely-stocked library. A pair of wooden shelving units had been pushed together to form an L-shape. Short stacks of worn books, with browning pages, were lying on their backs on the planks. A fierce heat was bleeding into the room through a ribcage radiator that was bolted to the wall behind the shorter of the two units.
They rounded a corner, into a corridor that was lined with dormitories. One room was occupied by twelve tiny green beds arranged in rows of threes. At the bottom of each bare mattress there was a neat pile of sheets and blankets.
In the room opposite, the beds were unpainted, high-sided wooden cots made up with blue sheets that were decorated with variations on western cartoon characters.
In a communal bathroom, a square interior window, set inside a sunken, pale-green frame, was protected by scrolling ironwork depicting a quartet of hearts, with their tapering ends pointing inward. The glass pane behind the grating was a dark bottle green. Pestov pushed his face up as close to it as he could. He held one hand above his eyes to block out the light and squinted into gloom, attempting to discern what lay behind.
In the adjacent room, there was no sign of any window.
“There is some kind of secret passage,” said Orlov.
Somewhere nearby, the sombre classical music flourished into a operatic performance.
In the adjacent room, there was no sign of any window.
“There is some kind of secret passage,” said Orlov.
Somewhere nearby, the sombre classical music flourished into a operatic performance.
“That door,” said Garin, pointing ahead.
Orlov peered cautiously around the side into what appeared to be a lobby leading to a suite of rooms. A curtain had been partially drawn across an enclosed coat rack that was populated with jackets in varying styles and different sizes. A rectangular island in the centre of the room housed six recessed basin sinks, each with its own small nozzle-tap drooping overhead. The faint smell of a woman's perfume lingered in the air. Through a door beyond they could see lines of small desks.
Orlov peered cautiously around the side into what appeared to be a lobby leading to a suite of rooms. A curtain had been partially drawn across an enclosed coat rack that was populated with jackets in varying styles and different sizes. A rectangular island in the centre of the room housed six recessed basin sinks, each with its own small nozzle-tap drooping overhead. The faint smell of a woman's perfume lingered in the air. Through a door beyond they could see lines of small desks.
Orlov entered the classroom with the others following behind. A map of Soviet territory was attached to the wall behind a teachers desk, where tattered old books had been lovingly arranged into orderly stacks. A crude bust of Lenin stood atop some grounded cubbyhole shelves. On a nearby table there was a globe that, either through accident or design, appeared to rotate around an almost horizontal axis. The floral scent of the perfume had grown stronger. It smelled, Garin thought, like something that his grandmother might have dabbed on her neck.
The music was emanating from a doorway behind the desk that opened onto a narrow living space. Garin could discern part of a lino floor and what appeared to be a small fridge. The music died abruptly. A woman with heavily rouged cheeks limped in profile into his field of vision, her footsteps accompanied by the rhythmic clacking of a hidden leg brace. She had a pointed nose. Chunky gold hoops dangled from her ears. Her dark hair had been pulled back from her scalp and fastened in a severe bun. She was wearing a long red dress made from a creased manmade fabric that was familiar to Garin. A moment later he recalled where he had seen it – it was dyed canvas that had been draped over the support vehicles during the previous year's workers parade.
Sensing that someone had entered her sanctuary, the woman turned Garin watched her expression at first soften, and then immediately harden.
“You are with him?” she enquired.
She regarded the three men for a moment.
“No, no you are not. You are something else,” she said.
“I am Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications,” said Garin.
“Let me guess," said the woman. "You have been sent here by Chendev to scoop me up under some pretence."
“I am Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications,” said Garin.
“Let me guess," said the woman. "You have been sent here by Chendev to scoop me up under some pretence."
“You were anticipating our arrival?”
“Chendev always plays his endgame with pieces you would not expect him to use,” said the woman. “It is the defining characteristic of his playing style. That is why I know that it was him who sent you. What business would the Minister of Communications have with me at this hour? I have never even met Vasnev, or spoken to him.”
“It seems as if maybe you were expecting someone different,” said Garin. “A suitor perhaps.”
He moved past her into her living quarters. It was a long, narrow room, shaped like a quarter segment of a circle, with an semi-arched roof. A wooden beam, nailed across the flattened arch of a tall sunken window, supported a chequered set of thin orange and brown curtains. In front of it, the brown and pale-gold patterned lino was staked out by a low-backed swivel chair. A carefully folded, blue and grey striped shawl had been draped over it in place of a cushion, with the tasselled fringe hanging over the edge of the seat. A small, hollowed-out filing cabinet occupied the space next to it. The three shallow draws lay scattered around it. Their contents, if there ever were any, had been removed.
Next to the fridge there was free-standing cupboard with a double hotplate resting on top. The wall to the right of the entrance had been built out. There were a set of tall double doors in the front. A narrow single bed had been pushed into the recess that lay behind it. On top of the pasty-pink blanket there lay a small piece of open luggage with rounded corners. It had been filled to the brim with neatly-folded clothes. A cassette radio lay on its back on the pillow.
The smell of perfume and rubbing alcohol filled the room.
“You are going somewhere...” said Garin. Carefully he began to lift each stratum of clothing with a pair of fingers, peering underneath each layer.
“...On a trip... Still, it is late in the day to be leaving...”
Near the bottom of the luggage, the ceiling light reflected off something. He fished it out, taking care not to disturb the clothes. It was a framed black and white photograph: A young woman who bore a faint resemblance to the one who hovered in the corner of his eye as a red blur, was standing next to an older man. He was thin and hawk-like, with a neat moustache. His rectangular glasses magnified his large eyes. Gathered around them was a group of four young boys, who appeared to be teenagers. The photo had been taken outdoors during the Summer when the light was good. In the background he could see apples and pears dangling in bountiful clusters from the boughs of the same tree.
“You are worried, perhaps, that you will turn into a pumpkin on the stroke of midnight, "said Garin. “I am told that there may be are some white mice with you.”
“I have sent them away,” said the woman. “They will return in due course.”
She straightened herself defiantly.
“What is the terrible crime that brings you out here in the snow and the darkness?” she said, acidly.
Garin met her stare.
Next to the fridge there was free-standing cupboard with a double hotplate resting on top. The wall to the right of the entrance had been built out. There were a set of tall double doors in the front. A narrow single bed had been pushed into the recess that lay behind it. On top of the pasty-pink blanket there lay a small piece of open luggage with rounded corners. It had been filled to the brim with neatly-folded clothes. A cassette radio lay on its back on the pillow.
The smell of perfume and rubbing alcohol filled the room.
“You are going somewhere...” said Garin. Carefully he began to lift each stratum of clothing with a pair of fingers, peering underneath each layer.
“...On a trip... Still, it is late in the day to be leaving...”
Near the bottom of the luggage, the ceiling light reflected off something. He fished it out, taking care not to disturb the clothes. It was a framed black and white photograph: A young woman who bore a faint resemblance to the one who hovered in the corner of his eye as a red blur, was standing next to an older man. He was thin and hawk-like, with a neat moustache. His rectangular glasses magnified his large eyes. Gathered around them was a group of four young boys, who appeared to be teenagers. The photo had been taken outdoors during the Summer when the light was good. In the background he could see apples and pears dangling in bountiful clusters from the boughs of the same tree.
“You are worried, perhaps, that you will turn into a pumpkin on the stroke of midnight, "said Garin. “I am told that there may be are some white mice with you.”
“I have sent them away,” said the woman. “They will return in due course.”
She straightened herself defiantly.
“What is the terrible crime that brings you out here in the snow and the darkness?” she said, acidly.
Garin met her stare.
“I do not know,” he said, thoughtfully. “Sit down and we will piece together some details, and form a clearer picture.”
He ushered her into the classroom, motioning for her to take a seat behind her desk.
Pestov took up station in the middle of the room where he perched on one of the desks. Orlov spun the globe on its horizontal access. For a few seconds the nations of the world were reduced to a white blur before colour and shape re-established itself. He attempted to sit himself down behind one of the desks. Realising how ridiculous this looked, he stood up and leaned against the wall, next to a window.
Garin remained standing. He pulled out the prop on the back of the photo frame and set in down on the desk in front of Yubkin, so that it was slightly angled towards her.
“You are Tarmara Yubkin,” he said.
As he withdrew his arm, he noticed a metallic, sandy-gold smear on the sleeve of his coat. He eyes scanned the room until he had located the source.
“You have painted your fingernails. Why?”
“Does a woman need a reason?” replied Yubkin. “You may call it vanity if you so choose. I am old and beauty does not come naturally to me as it once did.”
Her gaze roved across the contours and the artificial angles of his face, and searched for meaning in his large brown eyes.
“It surprises you to hear me speak this way,” she declared. “Is this why Chendev has sent you to spirit me away in the night? For embracing western fashion? The State does not value beauty when a reason cannot be found to regard it as functional. And yet sometimes a woman still desires to be beautiful. You seem like a heartless man. These men you have brought with you are clearly beasts. Even so, you must acknowledge that we are all guilty of some indulgence, whatever face we show to the world. All of us lead our true lives behind closed doors and hope that no-one is listening.”
“You are wearing your best clothes,” said Garin. “Your stockings are obvious contraband.”
Yubkin raised her left leg at the knee. She pulled back the hem of her dress and admired the sheen of the hosiery underneath.
“It is Indian silk,” she said. “It is naturally perfumed. Do you see these butterflies? They were hand stitched in New Delhi. A real butterfly is used as a template and is destroyed by the tailor's needle.”
“Why do persist in living here when your children are gone?” enquired Garin.
He studied her face, accurately anticipating the moment when her gazed dipped towards the photograph.
“They will return after renovations have been made,” she said. “Where else would I go? I have no other home and no family anywhere apart from the graveyard.”
“You have worked here for most of your life.”
“My duties have changed over that time, as I have taken on new roles,” said Yubkin. My over arcing responsibility – the management of children, remains a constant. I am the documented guardian of over ten-thousand Soviet citizens.”
“You are the true Old Mother Russia,” said Orlov, who had been starring out through the window. “What is the building I am seeing here?”
“It is the old monastery, “ said Yubkin, dryly. “It has stood since the 14th century. The priests were ardent supporters of the Romanovs. Following the Revolution, the building became property of the State and was turned into an orphanage.”
He ushered her into the classroom, motioning for her to take a seat behind her desk.
Pestov took up station in the middle of the room where he perched on one of the desks. Orlov spun the globe on its horizontal access. For a few seconds the nations of the world were reduced to a white blur before colour and shape re-established itself. He attempted to sit himself down behind one of the desks. Realising how ridiculous this looked, he stood up and leaned against the wall, next to a window.
Garin remained standing. He pulled out the prop on the back of the photo frame and set in down on the desk in front of Yubkin, so that it was slightly angled towards her.
“You are Tarmara Yubkin,” he said.
As he withdrew his arm, he noticed a metallic, sandy-gold smear on the sleeve of his coat. He eyes scanned the room until he had located the source.
“You have painted your fingernails. Why?”
“Does a woman need a reason?” replied Yubkin. “You may call it vanity if you so choose. I am old and beauty does not come naturally to me as it once did.”
Her gaze roved across the contours and the artificial angles of his face, and searched for meaning in his large brown eyes.
“It surprises you to hear me speak this way,” she declared. “Is this why Chendev has sent you to spirit me away in the night? For embracing western fashion? The State does not value beauty when a reason cannot be found to regard it as functional. And yet sometimes a woman still desires to be beautiful. You seem like a heartless man. These men you have brought with you are clearly beasts. Even so, you must acknowledge that we are all guilty of some indulgence, whatever face we show to the world. All of us lead our true lives behind closed doors and hope that no-one is listening.”
“You are wearing your best clothes,” said Garin. “Your stockings are obvious contraband.”
Yubkin raised her left leg at the knee. She pulled back the hem of her dress and admired the sheen of the hosiery underneath.
“It is Indian silk,” she said. “It is naturally perfumed. Do you see these butterflies? They were hand stitched in New Delhi. A real butterfly is used as a template and is destroyed by the tailor's needle.”
“Why do persist in living here when your children are gone?” enquired Garin.
He studied her face, accurately anticipating the moment when her gazed dipped towards the photograph.
“They will return after renovations have been made,” she said. “Where else would I go? I have no other home and no family anywhere apart from the graveyard.”
“You have worked here for most of your life.”
“My duties have changed over that time, as I have taken on new roles,” said Yubkin. My over arcing responsibility – the management of children, remains a constant. I am the documented guardian of over ten-thousand Soviet citizens.”
“You are the true Old Mother Russia,” said Orlov, who had been starring out through the window. “What is the building I am seeing here?”
“It is the old monastery, “ said Yubkin, dryly. “It has stood since the 14th century. The priests were ardent supporters of the Romanovs. Following the Revolution, the building became property of the State and was turned into an orphanage.”
She opened a drawer in the desk and removed a bottle of vodka.
“As far as being Old Mother Russia is concerned, I am no mother. I withhold love and teach only duty. I began here as a worker. I had an excellent mentor who nurtured my potential. In turn I worked hard to unshackle the potential that I saw in the children who were placed under my care.”
There was the clink of glasses as her hand moved around inside the drawer.
“They are the finest orphanages you will find anywhere in the world,” she said, her focus straying towards the hidden contents of the draw. “The children who come here leave well prepared for life. It is a grotesque failure of the State that all children are not raised in this manner and remain within the care of their parents.”
She lifted a trio of shot glasses out of the draw and onto the desk. Her hand returned to the draw to take out another glass which she placed in front of her.
“But I am being an ungracious host,” she said. “We will drink before we leave. As you know, I am already packed for a journey.
She poured out four measures, stopping only when the vodka reached the rim of each glass.
“I warn you in advance, we may be caned across the hands if we spill even a single drop,” said Orlov to Pestov as they made their way across the classroom to take their drinks.
Yubkin cleared the neat stacks of books away from the glasses to the far end of the desk
“I must decline,” said Garin, holding up his hands. “A health problem prevents it.”
From the living quarters they came a sudden panicked flapping. Pestov paused in the middle of reaching for his glass. He glanced, first at the door, and then at Garin. Yubkin pressed her knees together and suppressed a concerned look. The fluttering ceased as quickly as it had begun.
“A trapped ghost,” suggested Orlov.
“Or maybe a refugee bearing news from the countryside,” said Garin. “Go check.”
The flapping started up again. It was muffled as if its source was behind a closed door.
“A bird has found its way in from the cold,” said Yubkin. “This is an old building with many holes in the walls. It happens often.”
Yubkin cleared the neat stacks of books away from the glasses to the far end of the desk
“I must decline,” said Garin, holding up his hands. “A health problem prevents it.”
From the living quarters they came a sudden panicked flapping. Pestov paused in the middle of reaching for his glass. He glanced, first at the door, and then at Garin. Yubkin pressed her knees together and suppressed a concerned look. The fluttering ceased as quickly as it had begun.
“A trapped ghost,” suggested Orlov.
“Or maybe a refugee bearing news from the countryside,” said Garin. “Go check.”
The flapping started up again. It was muffled as if its source was behind a closed door.
“A bird has found its way in from the cold,” said Yubkin. “This is an old building with many holes in the walls. It happens often.”
Orlov opened one of the narrow doors of the recessed wardrobe. The flapping grew louder and then suddenly stopped.
“I have located the source,” he said, as he emerged from behind the slender wooden panel. In his hand he cradled a docile pigeon. The bird was huddled in its own down with its eyes partly closed, as if relishing the human contact. Orov had placed his over hand gently over its back to prevent it from escaping. As he approached Garin, he shifted one finger, revealing a brass ring around one ankle.
“Somehow it was in your wardrobe,” he said.
The ceiling above is open to allow some pipes to pass through,” said Yubkin. “The poor animal must have come in through one of the heating vents and become lost inside the crawlspace."
Garin had wandered over to inspect the bird.
“Somehow it was in your wardrobe,” he said.
The ceiling above is open to allow some pipes to pass through,” said Yubkin. “The poor animal must have come in through one of the heating vents and become lost inside the crawlspace."
Garin had wandered over to inspect the bird.
“There is some unusual writing on the brass ring around its leg,” he said. “Perhaps you could read it for us.
Yubkin fixed him with a desiccated stare.
“No?” said Garin.
“Let the bird go free,” he said to Orlov.
The soldier raised his hand. The pigeon remained where it was.
“He is asleep after his long journey,” said Orlov. “I could not have walked so far.”
The pigeon roused itself and took flight. It flapped around the ceiling as if trying to find a way through then alighted on one of the desks where it strutted around the edge. A half wingbeat carried it to an adjacent workspace.
Yubkin was staring at the framed photograph. She reached out to it, her fingers fondly touching the glass.
“We were a family,” she said. Her voice was heavy with regret. “I knew that it was wrong, however that is what we became. It happened so naturally. Together we were stronger than any blunt instrument of the State. In the end it was the most important thing.”
She picked up the vodka glass. The bulging surface tension remained glued to the circumference and did not spill.
As she raised it to her lips, Garin caught sight of an iridescent smudge around the inside of the rim.
“To silence uncooperative children who cannot be taught,” said Yubkin.
She tipped back the glass and gulped the contents without spilling a drop. As the alcohol surged through her, a youthful vigour momentarily took hold. She vibrated her head tightly from side to side. Baring her gritted teeth she made a sound that was somewhere between a bark and a growl.
Garin was already moving towards her as her arm came down, slamming the bottom of the shot glass hard on the desk. The concussion caused the brimming vodka in the trio of clustered glasses to slop over the sides, the individual spillages instantaneously fusing together to form a puddle around the bottom.
The skin of her face had contracted, exposing the underlying musculature. She made a deep airless inhalation that was immediately followed by another equally strained breath. Then, abruptly, she went limp and slumped over to one side, and would have been pulled out of the chair by her own weight, had Garin not been there to catch her. He manoeuvred her upper body forward and laid her chest-down on the desk, with her head turned to one side. Her eyes stared intently into space as if they were fixated in horror and astonishment on something that the others in the room could not see. He tried to close the lids without success. The puddle of vodka that had collected around the cluster of glasses formed itself into a river and began to flow towards her, pooling around her parted lips.
He took a couple of backward paces and stood looking at the body.
“My luck gives back nothing but shit this evening,” he said.
“No?” said Garin.
“Let the bird go free,” he said to Orlov.
The soldier raised his hand. The pigeon remained where it was.
“He is asleep after his long journey,” said Orlov. “I could not have walked so far.”
The pigeon roused itself and took flight. It flapped around the ceiling as if trying to find a way through then alighted on one of the desks where it strutted around the edge. A half wingbeat carried it to an adjacent workspace.
Yubkin was staring at the framed photograph. She reached out to it, her fingers fondly touching the glass.
“We were a family,” she said. Her voice was heavy with regret. “I knew that it was wrong, however that is what we became. It happened so naturally. Together we were stronger than any blunt instrument of the State. In the end it was the most important thing.”
She picked up the vodka glass. The bulging surface tension remained glued to the circumference and did not spill.
As she raised it to her lips, Garin caught sight of an iridescent smudge around the inside of the rim.
“To silence uncooperative children who cannot be taught,” said Yubkin.
She tipped back the glass and gulped the contents without spilling a drop. As the alcohol surged through her, a youthful vigour momentarily took hold. She vibrated her head tightly from side to side. Baring her gritted teeth she made a sound that was somewhere between a bark and a growl.
Garin was already moving towards her as her arm came down, slamming the bottom of the shot glass hard on the desk. The concussion caused the brimming vodka in the trio of clustered glasses to slop over the sides, the individual spillages instantaneously fusing together to form a puddle around the bottom.
The skin of her face had contracted, exposing the underlying musculature. She made a deep airless inhalation that was immediately followed by another equally strained breath. Then, abruptly, she went limp and slumped over to one side, and would have been pulled out of the chair by her own weight, had Garin not been there to catch her. He manoeuvred her upper body forward and laid her chest-down on the desk, with her head turned to one side. Her eyes stared intently into space as if they were fixated in horror and astonishment on something that the others in the room could not see. He tried to close the lids without success. The puddle of vodka that had collected around the cluster of glasses formed itself into a river and began to flow towards her, pooling around her parted lips.
He took a couple of backward paces and stood looking at the body.
“My luck gives back nothing but shit this evening,” he said.
He rubbed his jaw between his fingers and thumb, feeling the angles of his reconstructed skull underneath.
“If it is of any comfort, she could have chosen to poison us instead,” said Orlov.
“Do not drink just in case,” advised Garin.
From behind, they heard the shuffling of footsteps. A pair of young men, dressed in army uniforms were standing at the entrance to the cloakroom, both mentally processing the scene that lay before them.
Immediately Orlov and Pestov drew their weapons and fired in unison. The two men collapsed as though they were a single person. The pigeon, startled by the gunshots flapped around the ceiling in a blind panic until it eventually struck a wall and slid down the paintwork all the way to the floor. After lying motionless for a few seconds, it gathered itself and began to strut along the perimeter of the room, cooing loudly, as if nothing had happened.
“I was faster I think,” said Orlov as they moved between the desks, keeping their guns trained on the bodies.
“Your's went in below the heart,” said Pestov as he stared down at the two men. “The unfortunate bastard, he is still alive.”
“I will correct my mistake,” said Orlov. He pointed the gun and shot the man in the forehead. Readjusting his aim slightly, he fired a precautionary bullet into the head of the other man.
“Your body count is still one ahead of mine,” he remarked.
“The night is still young,” said Pestov. “The way we are going, you may be given the opportunity to even the score later.”
Orlov turned to Garin.
“I could see them reaching a conclusion. It was unavoidable.”
Garin put his hands up in deference.
“It would have been them or us,” he said.
Pestov was crouched over the bodies. A noise drew his attention beyond the island of washbasins. In the entrance to the corridor, a face was staring back at him. It was there for moment and then it was gone.
“There is another man,” he said.
Orlov whirled around. He was still holding his gun.
“See to it,” said Garin. “Do not allow him to leave,”
The two men darted into the corridor. It was deserted.
“Which way?” said Orlov.
“Right, or I would have seen him cut across the doorway,” said Pestov.
They jogged along the corridor. Pestov moving on ahead, while Orlov briefly checked the rooms on either side. At a right-angled turn, an enclosed wooden staircase could be partly seen through a narrow doorway. The passageway continued to the left with doorways facing one another on either side, The creak of a wooden board returned Pestov's attention to the stairwell.
Garin put his hands up in deference.
“It would have been them or us,” he said.
Pestov was crouched over the bodies. A noise drew his attention beyond the island of washbasins. In the entrance to the corridor, a face was staring back at him. It was there for moment and then it was gone.
“There is another man,” he said.
Orlov whirled around. He was still holding his gun.
“See to it,” said Garin. “Do not allow him to leave,”
The two men darted into the corridor. It was deserted.
“Which way?” said Orlov.
“Right, or I would have seen him cut across the doorway,” said Pestov.
They jogged along the corridor. Pestov moving on ahead, while Orlov briefly checked the rooms on either side. At a right-angled turn, an enclosed wooden staircase could be partly seen through a narrow doorway. The passageway continued to the left with doorways facing one another on either side, The creak of a wooden board returned Pestov's attention to the stairwell.
Orlov had caught up with him. Pestov motioned with his gun. The soldier nodded. His mouth was hanging partly open, showing both sets of teeth. There was a hungry, breathless look in his eyes. The door was made of rusted iron. In the past it had been white, but most of the paint had been worn or scratched away. Three bolts were attached to the outside edge at different heights. Gingerly Orlov pushed it fully open. He began to advance up the wooden steps with his back to the wall, straining to see past the point where the staircase zigzagged back on itself behind the opposite wall. When he reached the halfway point he waved to Pestov to follow. As he made his way to the top, the boards of one of the steps creaked under his boot.
They passed through an iron door that was identical to one at the bottom of the stairs. Pestov closed it behind them. Crouching down he forced the bottom bolt into its wall socket. The corridor was in a state of disrepair. The bottom five feet of the walls were painted forest green and decorated with crude hand-painted flowers. The top part was painted white. An empty fire extinguisher bracket was drilled into the plaster next to the door.
They moved along the passageway, each man checking the doors on one side. Orlov paused at the entrance to a corridor-shaped infirmary that was lined along both walls with rows of beds made up with white sheets. At the foot of each bed, there was a wooden podium incorporating a cupboard and a single draw at the top. The rectangular arch at the end of the room appeared to lead to another part of the building. A fuzzy shadow emanating from behind the cabinets nearest to the exit hovered over the tiled floor.
They moved along the passageway, each man checking the doors on one side. Orlov paused at the entrance to a corridor-shaped infirmary that was lined along both walls with rows of beds made up with white sheets. At the foot of each bed, there was a wooden podium incorporating a cupboard and a single draw at the top. The rectangular arch at the end of the room appeared to lead to another part of the building. A fuzzy shadow emanating from behind the cabinets nearest to the exit hovered over the tiled floor.
“Come out my friend,” he called. “We only want to talk to you. We will drink vodka and clear up the big misunderstanding.”
There was silence. Then a panicked human figure broke cover and dashed through the arch. Orlov raised his gun and fired. The shot went wide, striking a teddy bear that was perched on top of a pillow, its head exploding in a cloud of stuffing.
There was silence. Then a panicked human figure broke cover and dashed through the arch. Orlov raised his gun and fired. The shot went wide, striking a teddy bear that was perched on top of a pillow, its head exploding in a cloud of stuffing.
Cursing, he set off in pursuit. A draught was blowing in from somewhere and the air was colder. Behind him he could hear the sound of Pestov's boots squeaking on the tiles as he turned a corner. The man charged up another staircase taking the steps three at a time. They were now in a crooked attic corridor with painted ceiling beams. The peeling, windowless walls changed direction at gentle angles every 20 feet. He could not see his quarry, but he could hear his body moving ahead through the narrow space.
The passage temporarily widened into a space that was almost a room. Moonlight streamed in through a sunken window illuminating an upholstered high-backed chair that was perched on the broad stone sill a few feet off the ground. Its shadow stretched across the passageway and up the flaking walls opposite.
The air had grown colder. Pieces of the night sky were visible through splintering gaps in the ceiling. A snowflake collided with his face. He wiped it away with his glove but only succeeded in smearing chicken feathers across his face. Ahead he could see darkness and the gloomy silhouettes of buildings. It both confused and disorientated him for a moment. Then he realised, part of the wall at the end of the corridor had crumbled away, leaving behind the partial ruins of the window frames on either side. The wooden boards underfoot were pitched slightly forward towards the gap as if they had been damaged by the collapse of the wall. The man attempted to make a sharp turn away from the ragged hole. His feet slipped on the wet floor. He slid towards the gap waving his arms to steady himself before disappearing out of view. There was a short cry and then nothing.
Orlov carefully made his way to the edge of the hole and looked down. The man's body was lying in the snow at the foot of the building. His head and one of his legs were posed at a strange angles.
He made his way back along the passageway. Pestov was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
“It is done,” said Orlov.
The air had grown colder. Pieces of the night sky were visible through splintering gaps in the ceiling. A snowflake collided with his face. He wiped it away with his glove but only succeeded in smearing chicken feathers across his face. Ahead he could see darkness and the gloomy silhouettes of buildings. It both confused and disorientated him for a moment. Then he realised, part of the wall at the end of the corridor had crumbled away, leaving behind the partial ruins of the window frames on either side. The wooden boards underfoot were pitched slightly forward towards the gap as if they had been damaged by the collapse of the wall. The man attempted to make a sharp turn away from the ragged hole. His feet slipped on the wet floor. He slid towards the gap waving his arms to steady himself before disappearing out of view. There was a short cry and then nothing.
Orlov carefully made his way to the edge of the hole and looked down. The man's body was lying in the snow at the foot of the building. His head and one of his legs were posed at a strange angles.
He made his way back along the passageway. Pestov was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
“It is done,” said Orlov.
“We are at two each?”
“I cannot claim it. He ran out of floor.”
In the infirmary Pestov retrieved the mangled teddy bear.
“Collateral damage,” he said. “This is typical of artillery crews.”
At the iron door, neither man could draw back the bolt at the bottom. They wandered around until Pestov located another staircase. As they passed through a nursery Orlov moved a child-sized toy horse back and forth on its runners
“Rocking horse is decadent,” he said.
They found Garin in Yubkin's living quarters, going through the dead woman's possessions.
“Nothing,” he said, getting to his feet. "Nothing that counts."
Orlov plucked a bottle of gold nail varnish off the bed, where it lay among a small pile of cosmetics.
“This is a good manufacturer,” he said. “My girlfriend will like it. It takes a lot to satisfy her. She is always demanding thing from me, but she is a good fuck. What can you do?”
“You took care of it?” said Garin.
“The problem is solved,” said Orlov. He made his way back into the classroom.
Pestov threw the maimed soft toy onto the bed.
“Orlov has killed a noble Russian bear,” he said.
“Two senior party members in one night is hard to explain,” said Garin. “We had better make it back with someone alive before dawn.”
Orlov reappeared in the doorway with the messenger pigeon cupped between his hands. He brought it up to his chest, lowered his head, and made reassuring sounds that the bird responded to by nestling in deeper and closing its eyes.
“I am keeping the pigeon,” he said.
Tenderly he broke its neck.
“It will go well in a small pie.”
“The bird thought that you were going to take care of it,” said Pestov.
“Muratov taught it to find its way here,” said Orlov. “He neglected to teach it that that not all things are as they seem.”
Garin kicked Yubkin's emptied luggage across the lino floor, out of his path.
“Leave everything as it is,” he said. “We have other knots to tie before daybreak.”
As they moved past the wash basins, Orlov turned and took a final look at the classroom. The bodies of the two young soldiers had been dragged to the walls by Garin.Yubkin remained slumped over the desk where she had died. The pigeon dangled upside-down from his left hand, resting warmly against his outer leg.
A white piece of chicken down came loose from the sleeve of his coat and drifted to the floor in a side to side motion.
“Everywhere we go now, we leave behind a trail of feathers,” he said.
“I cannot claim it. He ran out of floor.”
In the infirmary Pestov retrieved the mangled teddy bear.
“Collateral damage,” he said. “This is typical of artillery crews.”
At the iron door, neither man could draw back the bolt at the bottom. They wandered around until Pestov located another staircase. As they passed through a nursery Orlov moved a child-sized toy horse back and forth on its runners
“Rocking horse is decadent,” he said.
They found Garin in Yubkin's living quarters, going through the dead woman's possessions.
“Nothing,” he said, getting to his feet. "Nothing that counts."
Orlov plucked a bottle of gold nail varnish off the bed, where it lay among a small pile of cosmetics.
“This is a good manufacturer,” he said. “My girlfriend will like it. It takes a lot to satisfy her. She is always demanding thing from me, but she is a good fuck. What can you do?”
“You took care of it?” said Garin.
“The problem is solved,” said Orlov. He made his way back into the classroom.
Pestov threw the maimed soft toy onto the bed.
“Orlov has killed a noble Russian bear,” he said.
“Two senior party members in one night is hard to explain,” said Garin. “We had better make it back with someone alive before dawn.”
Orlov reappeared in the doorway with the messenger pigeon cupped between his hands. He brought it up to his chest, lowered his head, and made reassuring sounds that the bird responded to by nestling in deeper and closing its eyes.
“I am keeping the pigeon,” he said.
Tenderly he broke its neck.
“It will go well in a small pie.”
“The bird thought that you were going to take care of it,” said Pestov.
“Muratov taught it to find its way here,” said Orlov. “He neglected to teach it that that not all things are as they seem.”
Garin kicked Yubkin's emptied luggage across the lino floor, out of his path.
“Leave everything as it is,” he said. “We have other knots to tie before daybreak.”
As they moved past the wash basins, Orlov turned and took a final look at the classroom. The bodies of the two young soldiers had been dragged to the walls by Garin.Yubkin remained slumped over the desk where she had died. The pigeon dangled upside-down from his left hand, resting warmly against his outer leg.
A white piece of chicken down came loose from the sleeve of his coat and drifted to the floor in a side to side motion.
“Everywhere we go now, we leave behind a trail of feathers,” he said.
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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