Watson, Ian - Novel 11 (12 page)

 
          
Again
Sonya had lost count. But they followed the trail of footsteps onward . . . and
now a wall loomed ahead of them. Mikhail ran a wondering hand over it.

 
          
“It
can’t be the Retreat. The Retreat’s back
that
way.”

 
          
“We
walked in a circle.’’

 
          
“You
know damn well we didn’t.’’

 
          
“Look,
any psychologist could tell you ... I mean, it’s so disorienting, this fog.’’

 
          
“The
front door must be along here, round the corner.’’
Which it
was.
They hunched inside the log-pillared porch, before entering.

 
          
“What
do we tell them, Mike?’’

 
          
“To send Osip out, to sweep the snow.’’

 
          
“Be
serious!”

 
          
“I
mean it! With a long cord tied round his waist. We pay the string out slowly,
keeping it taut . . .”

 
          
“We’d
have to say why.”

 
          
“True
... In that case, there’s no way we can explain.”
“Isolation?
Sensory deprivation?”

 
          
Mikhail
squeezed Sonya round the waist. “Since you mention it, Sasha . . .”

 
          
“I
am
not
Sasha Sorina.” To prove this,
she pecked Mikhail quickly on the cheek. Disengaging herself, she thrust the
door open.

 
          
“Hang
on—”

 
          
“What
is it?”

 
          
“It
just occurred to me, if we walk in a straight line and end up back where we
started—well, do you think we could possibly phone ourselves, too?”

 
          
“Come
again?”

 
          
“If
a straight line leads back here, maybe the phone line does as well? Let’s dial
the number of the Retreat and see what happens.”

           
“That’s crazy.”

 
          
‘‘So
was our walk.”

 
          
They
surrendered their coats and galoshes to Osip who was chewing the last bite of
sausage; his breath smelled of sweaty socks.

 
          
He
swallowed. ‘‘Enjoy your walk, then?”

 
          
‘‘Splendid.
You should take a walk, yourself.”

 
          
“Catch
me, Mister!”

 
          
Mikhail
grinned. “I want to use the phone.”

 
          
“I
told you, it isn’t working.”

 
          
“So
maybe my magic touch will cure it?”

 
          
“Suit
yourself. It’s through there.”

 
          
He
trailed after them and hung around while Mikhail dialled; Mikhail heard a lot
of clicks followed by a ringing tone.

 
          
“Hey,
that’s
our
number you dialled!”

 
          
“It’s
ringing, too.” Mikhail held the hand-set for Sonya to hear. “So it is. But
nobody’s answering.”

 
          
“Hardly
surprising—we’re already here.” Mikhail laid the hand-set down without
bothering to cradle it. “Come on.”

 
          
Osip
immediately scuttled to the abandoned hand-set and scooped it up. He listened
too, then cradled it hastily and pursued Mikhail and Sonya to the door to see
them off his premises.

 
          
Mikhail
sauntered a few paces down the corridor before stopping to fuss with his shoe.
“Damned lace!”

 
          
As
soon as he heard the door close, he tiptoed back to eavesdrop. Straining, he
heard the whirr of Osip dialling a new number— followed by a bewildered curse
and the slam of the hand-set being banged down. Grinning, he caught up with
Sonya.

 
          
“That’s
given him food for thought.”

 
          
“
Us
too, Mike.
Us too.”
She pushed
open the double doors. “Ah, Mr Petrov,” Kirilenko called out heartily. “
Refreshed,
and ready for another bout?”

 
          
Lydia-Popova threw
the revolver down on
the table. It was Anton’s own revolver, commandeered for the occasion. An
embroidered linen tablecloth concealed a thick felt underlay, thus protecting
Governor Vladimirov’s precious rosewood from any scars or dents.

 
          
“My
fingers are stiff from holding the horrid thing!’’ In a transport of fury she
began twisting her lace handkerchief as though to massage life back into her
hand. “Why are you standing there?’’ she shouted at Vershinin-Smirnov. “Get
out!”

 
          
Meanwhile
Anton regarded the proceedings quizzically from the very back of the huge
reception room. Crystal chandeliers blazed and the heavy tasselled curtains
were closed, though there was still ample daylight outside. Twenty rows of
chairs, upholstered in maroon velvet, seated the cream of local society. A
number of the men—notably the Governor—wore military uniform; others were
dressed in frock coats; but quite a few lounged in shabbier duds. One fellow
was puffing a cigar; beside him an old buffer in dundreary whiskers was
snoozing. Of the ladies, some wore old-fashioned crinolettes, and others had
their skirts tied back tightly under their buttocks; there were also gowns with
high collars and flounced shoulders. A few of the women were wagging Chinese
fans.

 
          
And
every few moments the whole audience would burst into a cacophony of laughter,
which drowned the dialogue—the men slapping their sides to stop them splitting;
so presumably this performance of
The
Bear
could be regarded as a huge success . . .

 
          
The
hoots and guffaws lanced through Anton’s head like migraine. ‘Dear God,’ he
thought, ‘isn’t people’s taste appalling?’

 
          
“I
love you!” Vershinin bellowed. ‘‘This is the last thing in the world I need!
I’ve got that interest to pay off tomorrow. The haymaking’s just started. And
now
there’s
you!”

 
          
When
he seized Lydia round the waist, the watching women’s eyes popped with
delighted scandal.

 
          
He
wailed, “I’ll never forgive myself!” And the audience convulsed.

 
          
“You
just keep away from me!” cried Lydia. “Take your hands off! I loathe you!” She
reached towards the revolver . . . but she didn’t pick it up. “I ... I
challenge you!”

 
          
“Bravo!”
the cigar puffer cried.

 
          
And
suddenly Lydia and Vershinin fell into each other’s arms and kissed . . . and
kissed . . . and carried on smooching passionately for an inordinately long
time. Rode seemed to have missed his cue. Or maybe he was delaying his entry
out of mischief.
The audience oooh-ed and aaah-ed.

 
          
At
long last Rode did bustle in, waving an axe. He was followed by several extras
recruited from among the Governor’s own servants. These men were a little
uncertain as to what was actually going on, and visibly nervous to be hauling
gardening tools into the best room in the house. But this was all part of the
fun. The spectators cackled at the gardener with his rake and the coachman with
a pitchfork in his hand and the other workmen wielding spades as cudgels.

 
          
“Holy
Saints!” shrieked Rode as he caught sight of Lydia and Vershinin locked in an
embrace.

 
          
Lydia
contrived to look demure. With eyes downcast, she delivered her punch line.
“Looka, you can tell them that Toby isn’t to have
any
oats today!” So much for her recently deceased husband’s
favourite horse . . .

 
          
And
that was that. Since there was no curtain—except for the curtains at the windows—Lydia,
Vershinin and Rode all stood stock still for a few moments, before stepping
forward in unison, Lydia to curtsey, the two men to bow deeply from the waist.

 
          
The
audience burst into applause—and the extras milled about in confusion, till
Vershinin noticed and chased them gruffly off. Fleeing, the servants crushed
through the doorway in a pack, and the rake got jammed across it . . .

 
          
Some
wit cried out, “Author!” Turning about in their seats, everyone took up the
call. Anton rose reluctantly, and bowed.

 
          
“Speech!”

 
          
“No,
please . . .” He spread his hands beseechingly. “All the credit belongs to our
fine actors.”

 
          
Rode
brandished the axe aloft. “Not a speech about
this\
A
speech about the expedition!”

 
          
“Absolutely
so!” seconded the bewhiskered gentleman—who had recovered consciousness the
moment the play was over.
“To the front with you, man!”

 
          
During
Anton’s speech,
Lydia
passed blithely amongst the audience bearing a collecting bowl—which, a
little later, she announced had netted a thousand roubles. Once again—what a
farce, in both senses
!—The Bear
had
bailed Anton out . . .

 
          
Servants
carried the chairs aside to clear the floor for dancing and drinking; and a
buffet was wheeled in.
Immediately half the men made a bee
line for it.

 
          
Gaily
Lydia handed Anton’s gun back to him. “Come and chat with the Governor, Anton
Pavlovich! Looka!” she called to Rode,
“do
get rid of that axe. You look like a madman.”

 
          
‘Looka,’ indeed?
So Lydia was still carrying on the drama in
her head? Either it was the sign of the great actress, or a monomaniac . . .

 
          
Three
musicians arrived, bearing fiddles and a guitar. ‘Surely I don’t have to
dance!’ thought Anton. ‘I’ll be the bear, then. I’ll be the capering, baited
bear . . .’

 
          
The
original bear, Vershinin, was deep in converse with Governor Vladimirov. Lydia
tugged at Anton’s sleeve, and he pocketed the gun hastily as she drew him
towards the Governor, to join in . . .

           
How many fathers or grandfathers of
people in this very room had once similarly skulked towards someone in
authority, with a weapon or a petition or an incriminating letter concealed
about their person? It occurred to him that
Exiles
might be a good title for a comedy ... or perhaps not. Even if it was a
knock-about farce, with a title like that it probably hadn’t a cat in Hell’s
chance of passing the Censor . . . Still, it could make a publishable
story—something to give the lie to all those smart brats at
Russian Idea
with their beady, liberal
eyes trained remorselessly on Mr Chekhov . . . Was this any way for an honest
writer to think?

 
          
As
he waited his turn to speak, nostalgia overwhelmed him. He yearned for a
summerhouse overlooking a little orchard, rather than the infinite forests
hereabouts. Yes, with a good fishing stream nearby instead of a raging Siberian
torrent . . .

 
          
But
any summerhouse he bought would probably turn out to be riddled with woodworm;
and the trees in the orchard would suffer from blight. . . Yet the stream, ah
the stream! He could sit on its bank for hours on end with a rod in his hand,
while the world and life degenerated all about him until the cold death of
everything . . .

 
          
Surely
there must be an orchard somewhere! For that matter, the whole world could be
an orchard one day . . . ‘What a hope,’ he thought. And yet he hoped.

 
          
The
Governor clapped a hand on him.

 
          
“Anton
Pavlovich, I haven’t laughed so much for ages! You must tell me the secret of
your comic talent . . .’’