Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (61 page)

The resourceful Scepura, having arranged everything back at the table, walked up and, to ease the possible fatigue of the guest, invited everyone, if not to break off the conversation completely, then to continue it at the table. (Once or twice he looked askance: What is this activist doing here, meddling about, breaking the rhythm?)

But the minister wouldn
’
t bite on the offer. He wanted to hear other voices, too.

That dried-up fellow in the black suit, the governor
’
s representative, kept silent the whole time, but looked on a bit sardonically.

Then Ivan Ivanovich Zdeshnev hastened to speak up. He was the manager of the expansive district surrounding the river. He did not look like much of an administrator. He had a simple snub-nosed face, a jacket that wasn
’
t formal and didn
’
t match the color of his slacks. Still, he forced himself too remember the importance of his own position, and the whole confluence of troubles, and the high estate of his guest.

“
You understand, I am sure, that I, as the
mayor
of these parts, am under significant
pressing
from the population. We have all become hostages of the Boguchan hydro station here, of whether or not it will happen. If it does, our livelihood will come to a poor end indeed.
”

He glanced at the minister
’
s face to check if he had crossed the line and spoken too boldly.

But the minister
’
s eyes were filled with comprehension and a businesslike significance. No, they exhibited no anger whatsoever.

What
’
s more, the secretary in the back had written it all down in his notebook.

Ivan Ivanych knew well that there is a limit to permissible
debate, that
one must not argue too hotly.
And yet. . .

“
Look how Old
Keul
was relocated from the zone of flooding ... It did not turn out overly well. The village is three hundred years old. The villagers wouldn
’
t go,
and that was that. So then they took to burning down the villagers
’
cottages. The villagers fought back with pitchforks and axes. All right, then, they left the cemetery alone for the time being. But they still resettled the villagers to New
Keul
.
Turned out that place sat atop quick ground: no building cellars there.
”

No, even now the boss showed no displeasure. Why, he seems . . . like an understanding sort of person. So Ivan Ivanych came out with another example, having no shortage of them.

“
In the hamlet of Kata—Kata stream is right opposite
Iodorma
, where we are headed—one old lady never did let them tear down her cottage:
‘
Kill me here, on the spot.
’
They left her alone . . . And so she catches
burbot
in wintertime, and piles it up frozen in the barn. They bring her bread by helicopter, in exchange for the fish.
”

He now caught himself, for he had gotten carried away, and laid out well too much.

“
Be so kind as to pardon me, but the
imidzh
of a
mayor
does not permit me to be silent, either ...
”

In reality, the visiting boss was no minister, but only a deputy—the deputy, however, of a very highly placed minister indeed. He came here to sort out the privatization of the huge, clumsy local timber processing complex, which needed a rapid and sure exit out of the hands of the state—-rapid, because privatization had not only many friends but likewise many opponents. A monster like that no one could buy, and no one would want it all anyway, so the solution was to break it up into forty-two enterprises. That had all been passed during the past few months, and the deputy minister came just to close the deal as soon as possible. This he had done successfully, and knew he would make his superiors happy. Now, these past few days, he kept being asked to take a ride down the Angara, so why not indeed? And today, in his last day here, they took off in the cutter. But who was this woman? Who got her in here? She is so hot and bothered about all this! Must be she
’
s not married. He hadn
’
t ever heard of this problem of a downstream power station, so now what? . . .

The cutter went onward, but they had not reached
Iodorma
as yet, and Scepura, in full frontal assault, persuaded the company to sit down at the table. He bustled about warmly, all cheerful, as if on a big holiday, even though the day was as common as they come. Shall we start off with some champagne?

Corks popped from two bottles, glasses filled with foam. Valentina Filippovna wouldn
’
t even take a seat at the table, somberly refusing for a long time.

The whole of
Ust
-Ilim had known Scepura—the round-headed little fat man, energetic despite being on the wrong side of fifty, and quick with words—even as far back as twenty years ago, when he was an electrician hanging on ropes above the Angara, erecting the dam. Here they assembled the best from the whole Union, and he made the cut. After that, he took law classes by correspondence course,
then was promoted to the prosecutor
’
s office, then returned to the pulp plant. Here he managed worker life, then made personnel decisions, then headed up the administration, signing permission slips for people to return back to Russia, and was even nominated for deputy director of the whole timber processing complex. When everything turned upside down, he became merely a hotel manager, and here he was: catering, pouring champagne, entertaining,
his
assistants at the ready.

Before the good cheer settled in, the taciturn representative of the governor had occasion to tell the visiting leadership of a few more gloomy items, leaving it to the guests how to report the issue further. So many power stations were built in Irkutsk province that up to fifty percent of the electric capacity has stood idle for the past three years. It was planned that aluminum smelters would consume it, but those wouldn
’
t be built even in another twenty years. So if one were to complete the Boguchan project now, where would one send the electricity? China seems like the only option, but a high-voltage line halfway across the Siberian taiga is a more expensive proposition than completing Boguchan station itself.

The minister was amazed. It was all hard to believe, yet a real government official was reporting it. The situation was only getting more complex.

“
Yes, to be sure,
”
he resonated in a weighty bass.
“
These solid arguments need to be taken into account.
”

Then the governor
’
s representative added that the Boguchan completion was being egged on by the Krasnoyarsk authorities. They settled over twenty-five thousand people down by Boguchan to build the dam, and now they have no jobs.

The minister raised his brow.
“
Egged on
”
sure did not sound like a government term, but then, but then even this
breaks
through sometimes, it
’
s only human . . .

The promontories receded, first on the right bank, now also on the left.

What breadth!

The men had started on the vodka.

The minister
’
s cheeks acquired a bit of rose.

He glanced toward the windows on the right, glanced toward the left, then pronounced thoughtfully:
“
Didn
’
t Pushkin make some mention of the Angara?
”

But no one offered to take him up on it.

In the meantime, the cutter approached the left bank.

The whole company left the table and went ashore to stretch their legs.

The shy captain descended from the cabin, too. And the mechanic popped out of the motor room. Scepura
’
s assistants, in their white aprons, scurried and scurried to set up right onshore, next to the water, to prepare a barbecue and soup from the fish they had brought.

In single file, they ascended the pockmarked
bankside
hillock.

. . . There, a village street ran parallel to the river with houses on one side, and deep behind it, another—much shorter—set of houses. The street was comprised of something like a road—but no wagon could make it through here; its axle would break in the ruts and potholes formed of dried mud.

Besides, it wouldn
’
t have anywhere to go, in any direction.

Nor was it much of a place to walk or stretch: You could break your legs here.

With the motor off, silence stood over the entire Angara, on both shores, and for several miles beyond.
Only the ring of mosquitoes by one
’
s ears.

The houses, still
undestroyed
, stood in a row. One of them even had freshly painted light blue decorations at the roof-end. In front of it, the sides of a turned-over flat-bottom boat were painted with the same blue color. Along the row of cottages, not a single door, not a single window was open. On one house was a sign:
“
Everyday wares.
”
The bolt on the door had rusted, but not yet the sign.

No one.
No chickens to peck at the ground here, no cat to sneak by. Only the grass grows on, oblivious to tragedy. And the peaceful green treetops in the front yards.

Life had been here . . .

Then again, here was a tall pile of freshly cut thick branches, just the size for splitting into firewood. So people live here even now.

It grew warm; the day had heated up.

Suddenly a cuckoo.
From across the Angara—how far that must be, yet how audible.

That is breadth. That is stillness . . .

All stood around in silence.

Then Zdeshnev called out lustily:
“
Za
-
bo
-lot-
nov
! Niki-
forych
!
Zabolotnov!
”

Meanwhile, he explained to the leadership. This was the hamlet of
Iodorma
, twenty-two households in all. It had a clinic once, and a school through fourth grade, but now it has all been cleared out for flooding. Here, too, Irkutsk province
ends, and Krasnoyarsk lies beyond. But Zabolotnov, sixty-three himself and with an old sick wife, wouldn
’
t go anywhere.
“
Here
lie
my father and mother,
”
he said,
“
and I am not leaving.
”
Well, they let him alone for now. And so, in the new times, with collective farms disbanded, he has taken up farming on his own. What you see on the other side of the Angara isn
’
t the bank, but two islands, with a sleeve of the river behind them. On the rocky island he keeps his calves, and on the fertile grassy one—the dairy cows. The milk is transported downriver by cutter. His wife cannot move about anymore, so he rows across the river at dawn and does the milking himself. He has plowed and planted there, too.

“
He does all this alone?
”

“
No, he has his two sons with him. One of them painted these roof decorations. Their wives live in New
Keul
. They will be coming in summertime, bringing his seven grandchildren. Why, there he is.
”

He was walking from somewhere, a long rein hanging in his hand. Wearing sackcloth pants, a cheap color-drawn jersey and a black short-wool cap, he made a so-so impression, a nondescript, ragged little man, yet with a firm step. He looked over the whole scene from afar and understood it was the leadership.

He approached.

“
Good health and greetings!
”
—his voice was not that of an old man.