‘Anechka’s body was sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling to the floor. She was naked except for her beloved scarf, a patch of red at her pale throat. She had been stabbed a dozen times or more in the chest and stomach and there was blood everywhere. On the floor, lying in the blood, was a small knife. I thought I was going to faint.
‘“Help me get her out of here,” the owner ordered.
‘I was feeling too numb to resist and so between us we managed to get her body down the stairs. The Slob was sitting by the fire, his head in his hands; the Weasel, grinning nervously, had poured himself a brandy. The owner told him to give us a hand but the man just shook his head and gulped at his drink. But the owner took out a small pistol and ordered the Weasel to help me carry Anechka’s body through the forest to the river.
‘“The bitch had no right to bite me,” he whined in protest but put down his drink and reluctantly took Anechka’s wrists.
‘“No!” I said. “I will take her.”
‘I pushed him out of the way and scooped her up in my arms. For a moment the owner looked at me oddly, as if wondering why I would do such a thing. Somehow I think he suspected why, but he didn’t say anything. He shrugged and gestured that the Weasel should accompany us.
‘The short walk through the forest was the worst time in my life. So often in the previous weeks I had walked there, Anechka’s hand in mine, or her arm around my waist. Now I was carrying her and I could feel her still-warm blood soaking into my shirt and against my skin. Tears blurred my eyes and it was all I could do to stop myself from laying her body down in the leaves and howling like a madman. In the end it was just as well that the Weasel came with us, for the river bank was treacherous and I did need a hand to step over the river stones. Slipping and sliding we waded out through the shallows to the channel in the middle of the river and there we let her go. As we stood and watched, she twisted and floated away into the dark and I imagined the Cossack, Stenka Razin, sacrificing his beautiful Persian girl to the Volga way back in the seventeenth century. In that moment I knew how he must have felt.
‘Then the Weasel spat after her. “Fucking whore!”
‘I don’t understand what happened next, for I had never reacted like that before. Something must have snapped inside me, for I sprang at him and grabbed him around the throat. I realised that the owner was standing there with his pistol, but I didn’t care if he shot me. I think I would have welcomed it. But he didn’t. He just watched as I strangled the man. When he went limp, I dropped him in the deep water. For a second I wanted to pull him out. Not to attempt to revive him, but because it seemed unfair on Anechka that she should have to share her river with such a man. But he was gone.
‘For a while we stood there. I don’t know what the owner was thinking, but I imagined I could hear distant cloister bells and was picturing Anechka fulfilling her wish to visit the monastery at Zvenigorod.
‘We walked back to the house in silence. The Slob, white and shaken, insisted that they return to Moscow without delay but the owner just shook his head and sat. I thought he had forgotten about me, and it was a long time before he seemed to become aware of my presence again. I must have looked a sight — my face streaming with tears, my shirt and trousers streaked with blood. The owner poured me a drink and then said that he was sorry about what had happened to Anechka and that I must not worry about him turning me in to the police. He would take care of everything. And he did. Later he offered me a job and I have worked for Oleg Vasilyevich Rusak ever since.’
Teschmaker stared into the steam rising from the kettle but drew no comfort from it; the mundane vapour seemed like some malignant miasmal mist. He wanted to say something but words were suddenly inadequate. And he was confused by the flow of feelings that had washed over him despite Ilya’s almost monotone recitation of the story. But the sadness and pain dragged sound from him — a whisper.
‘Ophelia. I had a picture in my head of Ophelia. A red Ophelia in a black landscape.’
‘Floating down the river.’ Ilya took a long swig of the vodka and handed the bottle to Teschmaker. ‘I had a dream for years that she wasn’t dead, that she had crawled ashore somewhere.’
‘Ophelia. Guided by naiads.’
‘Covered in weeds . . .’
‘Floating between willow roots . . .’
‘Brushing against the rubbery stems and pads of waterlilies.’
‘Cuckoo flowers, celandines . . .’
‘Duckweed clinging to her arms.’
‘Fronds of water crowfoot caressing her as she floats . . .’
Ilya struggled to his feet and recited slowly:
‘There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them:
There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress . . .’
Ilya sighed, wrested the bottle back and drank deeply. ‘You’re right, tovarich, she was my Ophelia.’
He seemed deeply satisfied and lurched unsteadily to fetch a small tin of tea and a jar of sugar. ‘However . . .’ He stood still, holding up a finger for added emphasis, but momentarily lost his train of thought. Then, regaining it, proclaimed triumphantly, ‘I don’t think I am Hamlet.’
‘No,’ Teschmaker agreed lugubriously, aware that he was now quite drunk and rather enjoying it. ‘But you could be, Ilya, you could be.’
‘And so could you!’
‘We could both be —’
‘Two Hamlets are better than one!’
Ilya collapsed in laughter. When he recovered, he produced a packet of tobacco and proceeded to display his ability to roll a cigarette with one hand. ‘You know Rusak will kill you.’
‘So he says.’ Teschmaker found himself giggling at the prospect.
‘It would be better if I do it.’
Teschmaker took the proffered cigarette. ‘Why?’
‘Because I like you and I am very expert at this thing. You wouldn’t feel anything.’ He fished a lighter from the packet of tobacco and with a surprisingly steady hand lit Teschmaker’s cigarette and started to roll one for himself.
‘That is very kind of you,’ Teschmaker said.
He decided to give up on making tea for Sydney. He leaned over, turned off the stove then rose and weaved his way to the door. Sure enough the old man had gone back to sleep. He turned and made his way back to the settee where Ilya had seated himself. He slumped down beside him and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. ‘I would do the same for you.’
The combined effects of too much alcohol, a hit of nicotine and no food were ganging up on him. His mind drifted off for a while; then he marshalled his concentration and was about to say something to Ilya about food when he realised the man was asleep. On the floor beside him lay the empty vodka bottle. Beside it was the pistol. Teschmaker smiled. It was good to have everything in the right place. He stubbed out his cigarette and lay back. For some strange reason he felt safe. The room was a cocoon in which only good things happened. It was outside that was dangerous. In the minute or so before he fell asleep he thought about escaping, but decided it would be much better to do it in the morning. It would be light and, after all, he would want to say goodbye to his new friend Ilya.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Teschmaker awoke to find Ilya standing over him proffering a cup of tea. He tried to sit up but his body rebelled. He reached out and grasping the back of the settee pulled himself upright. ‘Wh
at time is it?’
‘Nearly midday,’ Ilya said. ‘You snore very loudly.’
‘Sorry,’ Teschmaker mumbled and took the tea. His head was aching and his eyes struggled with the concept of focus.
‘There is some porridge if you want it.’ Ilya pointed to a pot on the gas stove. ‘I think it’s still warm.’ He returned to his chair by the door.
Teschmaker hadn’t previously noticed the small window set in the wall by the door. It was now open, the curtains pulled back, and the sunlight streaming in afforded enough light for Ilya to read by. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Words, words, words,’ Ilya grunted and held up the book for Teschmaker’s inspection. But his eyes still refused to focus and he learned nothing other than the book was a small hardcover volume with a title in gold-embossed Cyrillic script. Teschmaker helped himself to the lukewarm porridge and then made his way to the bathroom. He had been intending to talk to Sydney Morris again, but the old man was sound asleep, an empty cup and bowl on the bedside table.
It must have been about four o’clock when they heard the car. Teschmaker had dozed off again and Ilya, having finished his book, was attending to Sydney Morris. At the sound of the vehicle, Teschmaker sat bolt upright. Up until that point he had been content to nurse his still aching body and head gently back from the previous night’s abuses. Now he was suddenly awake and painfully aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. A couple of minutes passed and then Ilya, who had reclaimed his pistol, opened the door to admit Rusak. To Teschmaker’s surprise Rusak was followed by Jane Sinclair. Alarmed, his mind flashed back to Rusak’s claimed intention that he should kill her. Just talk, he told himself; you can talk your way out of this. He didn’t believe it. He turned his attention to Jane. There was nothing in the woman’s demeanour to suggest she considered herself to be in any kind of danger. Wearing a dark blue ankle-length dress and a white cardigan, she looked particularly ordinary — a woman out visiting, not one attending her own execution.
Jane glanced at Teschmaker with a look of disinterest, then addressed Rusak. ‘Shall we get on with it?’
Rusak held up his hand. ‘In a minute. Introductions first.’
He turned to Teschmaker. ‘Of course you know Mrs Sinclair. Jane, this is the man who was stalking you. I promise you he won’t trouble you any more.’
Jane didn’t react at all, but turned on her heel and went through to her father’s room.
‘You have a reprieve, Teschmaker,’ Rusak said quietly. ‘But then, so does Jane.’
‘Good, then I’ll get out of your way.’ Teschmaker wondered if it was really going to be that easy. The look on Rusak’s face suggested otherwise.
‘Temporary reprieve. I have decided to give Jane one more chance to jog her father’s memory. After that . .
.’ He shrugged and followed Jane, shutting the door behind him.
‘Well, that was good — for a moment.’ Teschmaker grinned weakly at Ilya. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider just standing back and letting me leave?’
Ilya simply mimicked Rusak’s shrug.
‘Oh well, I thought it was worth the try. We don’t have any more vodka, do we?’
This time Ilya didn’t even bother to respond, just turned away and took up his position by the door.
It was over an hour before the bedroom door opened and Jane and Rusak emerged. It was plain from the look on Rusak’s face that he hadn’t got what he wanted. Several times Teschmaker had heard raised voices, usually Rusak’s but, on one occasion at least, Jane’s.
‘We’ll be back to clean up this mess this evening,’ Rusak snapped at Ilya as he strode to the door, ushering Jane before him. She looked angry and frustrated. Just as she was about to step out onto the landing, she pushed past Rusak and came back into the room. Without hesitation she marched up to Teschmaker and slapped his face. It happened so quickly and took him so much by surprise that he didn’t have time to duck or fend off the blow.
‘I don’t know what’s going on in your sick little brain, but fucking keep away from my family.’
The vehemence of her words stung Teschmaker like a second blow.
Behind her Rusak guffawed. ‘After tonight she won’t be worrying about you at all, will she?’ He held the door open for her and followed her down the stairs.
‘So what happens next?’ Teschmaker asked after they had heard the car drive away.
‘You heard Mr Rusak.’
‘Clean up the mess? What mess?’ Teschmaker didn’t really need an explanation but was in need of a good dose of denial. Unfortunately Ilya had no such need.
‘You and Sydney Morris. We have been here far too long. This business would have been so easy if that stupid old man had half a brain left.’
‘What the hell are you after? What can an old man know?’ Teschmaker didn’t bother to mask his anger.
‘Too much,’ Ilya replied blandly. ‘The old man knew too much, but, sadly for all of us, he can’t remember.’
They sat in silence for a while. Then Ilya got up and lit the oil lamp. ‘I’ll make some food. You like baked beans?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I hate them.’
‘Why?’ Teschmaker asked after a while.
‘Why what?’
‘Why everything.’ He laughed dryly then added as an afterthought, ‘Why do you think she slapped my face?’
Ilya looked up from the little stove. ‘Because she likes you. Some things I see only with my poet’s eye and these things I don’t tell Oleg Vasilyevich. I think she was once your Anechka. I am right, yes?’
‘How the hell could you tell that?’
‘Because she pretends you are nothing when she comes in. Then, when she leaves, she does like the American music says — “Love hurts”. So she hurts you to show you this thing.’
‘She is my Anechka?’ Teschmaker shook his head. ‘No, Ilya, she is not my Anechka but sadly it appears she may well become my Ophelia.’
‘So you will be a real Hamlet,’ Ilya said softly.
After they had eaten Teschmaker tried to have another conversation with Sydney Morris, but got no further than on the two previous occasions. For a moment it occurred to him that the old man was not as senile as he appeared and was playing a game with him. If he could only say the right thing, Teschmaker felt he could elicit a meaningful response; but he realised it was hopeless. If it was a test he had no idea of the subject. He had no glimmering of what he was hunting for and even less of what might prompt the old man’s memory. Anyway, why should he succeed when it seemed that even his own daughter couldn’t get through to him? No matter how he pushed, the old man kept up the meaningless gobbledygook about flowers and gardening. Whatever it was that Rusak wanted, it certainly had nothing to do with horticultural pursuits.
Teschmaker said goodnight, with a dark sense of foreboding that he would never see the old man again. He might not see anyone if he didn’t figure a way out of his present situation.
Ilya had obviously sensed Teschmaker’s line of thought and had the pistol on his knee. He was withdrawn, morose and uncommunicative. Much as he knew he should be concentrating on his own fate, Teschmaker’s mind kept turning back to Ilya’s story. It was a bizarre set of circumstances that had brought the man to his present position. The twists and turns of fate had given killer’s hands to a man with the heart of a poet. In another universe they might have become friends, yet there seemed only one way out of his predicament now and that was past Ilya.
He searched the room, desperately looking for some makeshift weapon. Could he light the stove on the excuse of making tea and somehow use it against the Russian? Even as he thought it, he knew it was not in his make-up. Yet he was just as sure that he wasn’t going to give up without some kind of fight. And so he went — around in circles.
It was some time after 10 pm when they heard the car returning. Ilya looked as tense as Teschmaker was feeling. Both men got to their feet but kept their distance from each other. Ilya gestured with the pistol
that Teschmaker should get back against the side wall. Feeling like a trapped animal, he reluctantly obeyed. It seemed to take an eternity before they heard a noise downstairs and then footsteps on the stairs.
The door opened and Jane came in looking drawn and pale. She took in the situation at a glance, went straight up to Ilya and pushed down the barrel of the pistol. ‘He’s to come with me. Rusak wants to talk to him in town.’
‘I have strict orders —’ Ilya began but Jane cut him off abruptly.
‘You’re to give me the gun and I am to escort him to Rusak. You are to stay and keep an eye on my father, and I swear, if anything happens to him, I will come back and kill you.’
She didn’t wait for another protest but turned to Teschmaker. ‘You, downstairs. I’ll be right behind you and, believe me, I would love an excuse to shoot you.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t allow it until I hear from Rusak.’ Ilya stepped back, his fingers tightening on the pistol. ‘It is more than my life is worth.’
But Jane was not to be put off. ‘And just how much is that Ilya Ivanovich?’ She stood directly in front of him and held out her hand.
Teschmaker sensed the momentary hesitation and the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
‘Ilya, Jane has told you that the order comes from Rusak,’ he said quietly and moved away from the wall and stepped up to the Russian. For a second they locked eyes.
Then Ilya turned to Jane. ‘Be careful of this man. He is more dangerous than he first appears.’ He passed her the gun and put his hand on Teschmaker’s shoulder. ‘You leave me only the role of Yorick.’
Teschmaker grinned. ‘I think not, and I am no Horatio.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Jane exploded. ‘Will you two shut up? We have to hurry.’
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