The House by the Dvina (29 page)

I was usually dealt with first, thoroughly and efficiently. When the ordeal was over I was handed a basin and told to do as I liked. From that moment I delighted in a happy orgy of splashing and throwing basins of water over everybody. Babushka, with a cold cloth over her forehead, lay stretched out on the top shelf. Kapochka stood in the middle of the floor and chastised herself with her switch until she glowed like a boiled lobster. The small leaves stuck to her body and she emptied countless basins removing them. Everybody sweated, soaped and scrubbed, and all around us was this hazy curtain of heat and steam.

It was pleasant to be back in the dressing-room. I can still feel the sudden coolness and general well-being as I sat wrapped in fragrant towels, drinking cranberry juice and eating the pasties.

Back in the house all was light and brightness. Sashenka, our self-appointed major-domo, would be bustling around, cutting lemon into transparent slices, spooning jam into small individual glass saucers, ordering Glasha to bring the samovar. We, now in our white sleeping jackets, our damp hair hanging loosely, would gather round the table.

Nothing unusual ever happened during our visits to the banya, but one evening a strange incident did take place there Ч so strange that the description of it received a column in our local paper.

Some time before this incident, an Italian family came to stay in our town. It is difficult to imagine what possessed this son of warm climes to move to our northern city of frosts and snows, but no matter, he came, settled down and in time prospered. However, I vaguely remember that he ran a profitable restaurant.

One night Dedushka received an urgent call to the house of the Italian and on arrival was met by a small group of weeping children, a distraught mother and an anxious father, who led him into the nursery to a small cot.

Dedushka bent over and gently lifted the cover to examine his young patient. There, curled up and wrapped in a shawl, was a small monkey!

Dedushka, in spite of his serious exterior, was at heart a kindly man with deep compassion and a gentle sense of humour. He hid his astonishment and proceeded to treat the monkey. In time she recovered and later, as a mark of esteem and gratitude, the Italian called and brought Fifi the monkey with him. A monkey in our arctic city was as strange a sight as a polar bear might be in the tropics. There was no zoo in our parts, we were therefore excited beyond words watching this intelligent and almost human little animal.

One frosty night, soon after Christmas, our Italian friend decided to take his wife and children to a Russian banya. He looked forward to a new and what he hoped would be a memorable experience. He was not to be disappointed. The family were shown into their room. No one noticed or paid any attention to the small bundle muffled in a shawl. The Italians undressed and, unwrapping the monkey, proceeded into the washing-room. In clouds of steam, our Italian friend and his wife sat soaping and scrubbing themselves accompanied by the singing, in full voice, of their native songs, while the children scampered about, splashing each other in happy abandon. The doors were closed Ч they were secure in their privacy and no one noticed the small archway leading into the adjoining room Ч but not so Fifi. She examined the opening. Before her stretched a long vista of similar archways leading into other washing-rooms and offering endless possibilities.

The room she entered was occupied by an old couple from the country. The man was lying stretched out on the top bench. His wife, having scrubbed and beaten him with the birch switch, was now sitting on the lower bench washing her hair, meanwhile keeping up a continual flow of small talk.

Unable to see clearly, she was groping for the cake of soap beside her when, suddenly, her hand came in contact with what seemed alive, soft and furry. She opened her smarting eyes. Something dark and strange leaped down and scampered past her into the opening in the opposite wall. There it appeared to pause. Surprised by the sudden silence, the peasant glanced at his old woman. Her frightened eyes were focused on a long tail curling gently on the damp stone floor. A simple man, surrounded by woods and fields, he had seen many tails. Yet now he was confronted by one he could not place anywhere at all Ч unless … unless … it was something he was afraid even to think about. At this point the tail, giving one final, jovial flick, vanished. All at once the sound of crashing basins, frenzied screaming, broke out in the adjoining room. Fear is infectious.

Half-carrying his terror-stricken wife, the peasant dragged her into the dressing-room. From there, hastily draping some sheets over their bodies, they rushed into the corridor. Simultaneously, the door next to them opened and three hysterical young women ran out, completely nude, with streaming wet hair, soapy bodies and birch leaves sticking to their rosy bottoms.

Inside the room, further along, on the highest bench, reclined a giant figure of a man. A cold, wet towel lay across his forehead where a thousand tiny demons were driving red-hot needles into his skull. He was in the throes of the worst hangover he had ever known.

His wife, a sturdy figure, was quietly intent on her own ablutions, ignoring her spouse and treating him with silent contempt. Standing in the middle of the floor, she was chastising herself in the usual manner, now and again casting a baleful glance at the top bench. Beside her in readiness for further use stood a row of filled basins.

Impervious to everything, her husband lay sweltering in the heat. A bottle of some refreshing drink to quench his thirst stood near him. His languid gaze travelled around the immediate surroundings, up to the ceiling, stove, walls and down to his feet. There, sitting, staring curiously Ч was a monkey. He closed his eyes and turned away. It was impossible for such an animal to be here. It could only mean one thing Ч the dreaded symptom of delirium tremens. He glanced again. It was uncanny how real it looked Ч

real enough to be now sitting calmly drinking out of his bottle.

The sudden frenzied screaming of his wife rent the air. She had also discovered Fifi. Fifi, terrified out of her wits, leaped from shelf to shelf or flashed in crazy circles round the room. The woman, fat and heavy, floundered in all directions. The inevitable happened. She slipped and landed on her posterior. The monkey vanished.

On his high bench, her spouse sat watching the scene below him. Waves of relief surged through his being. He didnТt question the monkeyТs presence.

His wife had seen it. His body shook with uncontrolled mirth and he was sitll laughing when he joined the others in the corridor.

And now like a snowball rolling down a hill, gathering momentum and increasing in size, Fifi, traversing from room to room, succeeded in spreading utter fear and astonishment. Men, women, children, in all stages of undress, were milling up and down the corridor, gathering in groups, laughing, crying, shouting. In their midst was our Italian friend with his wife and children. Gesticulating wildly, all speaking at once in their broken Russian, they were endeavouring, with no success, to explain the situation to the bewildered manager. People surrounding him, not understanding anything, were nodding in agreement.

At that moment a door at the end of the corridor burst open and a young woman ran out. In her white, frothy pantaloons, slotted with crimson ribbons, a fur jacket over her shoulders, barefooted, she presented a titillating picture. Behind her, red faced and embarrassed, hurried a young officer. In their wake was Fifi, wearing a small fur hat, with its lace veil dragging behind her like a bridal train. She was wet and frightened and had lost all her bravado. Someone laughed. Laughter like fear can be infectious, and what a few minutes before puzzled and terrified became simple and even an object of adulation. The children laughed, people crowding round made friendly overtures and cooing noises reserved for babies and small animals. Fifi clung to her owner and wanted none of it. Gradually the normal routine took over. The young woman retrieved her hat and shawl and vanished with her companion. The naked and half-dressed likewise retreated. The Italian, with Fifi and his family, thankfully returned to their room.

1915

The first Christmas of the war came and went. There was again the Christmas tree, the usual gathering of friends and relatives. Stamped in my memory is a picture of my little cousin, Jenchik, now ten months old, held in his motherТs arms. Adelya and Verochka arrived in their kibitka, drawn by a single horse. The requisitioning of horses for the war put an end to troikas. The sisters had lost their liveliness and were still grieving over the loss of their only nephew, a young officer, killed at the front during one of the battles in the beginning of the war. Nothing, that year, was quite the same as the past happy Christmases. The days slipped into the New Year of 1915. One morning in early January, a peasant came to the kitchen and asked to see my father. The man was my fatherТs “milk brother” who brought the news that his mother, Seraphima, had suddenly died. Father immediately ordered Nikolai to harness the sledge and the three men set off for the village across the river. Father spent the night in the isba where Seraphima had lived with her son and family, and the following day, after attending the funeral, returned with Nikolai.

The crossing of the river in the intense frost proved too much for him.

Cold and exhausted, he succeeded in catching a chill and had to take to his bed for the next few days. For some time FatherТs health had been gradually deteriorating. He was losing the power in his legs and now walked slowly, supported by two walking sticks. Although I did not know it at the time, I discovered much later that his condition was diagnosed as disseminated sclerosis Ч a deadly illness for which, to this day, there is no cure.

Children, unlike their elders who weep and pray, will accept what is inevitable. From that day when we were crossing the moor in Issagorka and I was overcome by a heavy foreboding, seeing my father sitting on the small hump unable to join us, I gradually became reconciled to the knowledge that he would never walk again. Deep in my heart I knew that I would never see the familiar figure striding along our street or on a summerТs day go strolling in the garden.

One evening after dinner, at the beginning of the year, everyone gathered round the circular table in the dining-room, engaged in their own particular hobbies. Babushka was creating beautiful flowers, Marga embroidering her handkerchiefs, others knitting and sewing, and I nibbling sweet pine-kernels listening to Seryozha reading one of PushkinТs entrancing stories. Becoming thirsty, I interrupted Seryozha and asked him to stop while I went for a drink. Hurrying from the dining-room and through the back hall, I entered a long narrow corridor. At the far end was a window and against the wall a wide staircase going up to the garret.

Under the stair was a sideboard on which stood a row of samovars and a tray with tumblers. In one of the samovars boiled water was kept for drinking. Lifting one of the tumblers I turned the tap Ч and with that heard quite clearly a voice coming from above me saying my name. Holding the tumbler, I stepped out and glanced up at the staircase. There, leaning on the banister, was a woman Ч an ordinary woman, plain faced with no outstanding features. Over her head and shoulders was a shawl such as was worn by peasants. “What do you want, who are you?” I asked her. There was no answer. Vaguely alarmed, I repeated my question. She remained silent, but then suddenly smiled. It was a terrible smile, venomous, frightening.

Horror stricken, paralysed, I dropped the tumbler. The sound of breaking glass set off a screaming Ч shrill, prolonged and heard throughout the house.

Downstairs, the servants heard me screaming and rushed upstairs. “The woman, the woman,” I kept repeating through my sobs. “She is hiding in the garret, find her Ч catch her.” Certainly it was impossible for her to be elsewhere Ч she never passed me and, if she had, she would have run into the servants or the others all rushing into the corridor from the hall.

While the garret was being searched, I was led away to BabushkaТs room and given the never failing sedative of Valerian drops. Babushka never left the bedroom. Father came in and sat talking to her. Both spoke in whispers, yet I overheard Babushka asking if they had searched the garret well and Father saying that they had, although they knew it was impossible for anyone to be there, for when they rushed up to the door, they found that it was locked as usual and the key hanging on the nail outside. That night I slept between my grandparents Ч in their large twin beds joined together. Protected on either side, I eventually fell asleep. She was never found Ч the mystery of her appearance remains unsolved. Yet she has not vanished entirely and still haunts me. She comes in various guises, young and lovely, old and pleasant, but always frightening in the end.

Once, years later in India, I dreamt that I was back in the house, bending over a basket in which we kept our fancy dresses. A strange young woman joined me and, dreamlike, I saw nothing unusual in her presence until I recognised the evil smile and woke up bathed in sweat screaming for my mother. Always my mother. Later I went back to sharing the bedroom with my aunt. Marga was never able to sleep alone. I knew that at one period of her life Marga had been frightened, but by what I never discovered. The days when I could scold my aunt for being afraid and bothering me were over. It was she who comforted me now. “All is well,” she would assure me, gently stroking my head, “there is nothing to be afraid of, the holy light is burning. Try and think of happy things Ч think about a Christmas tree.”

With the beginning of the war the Tsar, conscious of the humiliating defeat Russia suffered during the Russo-Japanese war in 1905, was determined that such a disaster would never be repeated. He issued many edicts including one prohibiting the sale of alcohol. Although widely welcomed, this measure also created problems. As the purchasing of alcohol was confined only to those who could obtain a prescription from a doctor, Dedushka was besieged by persons clamouring to obtain one. A man of high principles who abhorred the effects of alcohol in any form, he refused to be cajoled, bribed or threatened. Many citizens, unable to appease their thirst, turned to the nearest substitutes. Our coachman Nikolai, finding the answer in denatured spirits, was soon rechristened “Denaturka,” a name to which he responded with calm detachment. A close friend of my father, Pavel Stepanovich, became known as “Rosachka” on account of his addiction to “White Rose” perfume which, he asserted, was as good as any vodka. He was quite devastated when due to unprecedented demand it vanished from all shops. Father and Uncle Sanya got together to prepare a special concoction. The ingredients, which were not divulged to anyone, were placed in a large square tin and left in the warmth of the kitchen.