Vladimir edged farther toward the door. He’d almost taken his leave.
Usurpet’s expression changed to one of profound sorrow. “My little girl,” he mouthed without making a sound.
Karadine pointed her finger at Vladimir. “He made me do it, Papa,” she said. “He made us both do it.”
Usurpet turned toward Vladimir. His eyes formed flaming-red spheres. The farmer dropped his lantern. His shotgun still lay at the center of the floor. Vladimir canceled his retreat. He and Usurpet both eyed the gun, then each other. Vladimir was eight paces away, maybe as many as nine. Usurpet was only four. In a sudden move, Usurpet lunged to the floor and picked up the shotgun. Vladimir turned and ran. He took off into the dark of night. Vladimir was five meters into the field when he heard the first shotgun blast. He kept running, one hand on his satchel, the other arm pumping in the air. The farmer cried out his name. A second blast fired and Vladimir fell to the ground. Unharmed, he pulled himself up again and ran; the shotgun fired once more and he kept running. His hiccups choked in his chest, but Vladimir didn’t stop until the dark gave way to the dawn and he was several kilometers away.
Vladimir looked back for the hundredth time. There was no sign of Usurpet behind him, no sign of the farmer’s horse and wagon. It was then and only then that Vladimir collapsed, almost unwillingly, into a thorny patch of rose bushes and closed his exhausted eyes.
ten
Three days later, Vladimir approached the township of Kyakhta, the last landmark on Gog’s map leading to the large Siberian city of Irkutsk and its railway. As Gog had advised, he trekked over a small mountain — a hill really, compared to the daunting height of the towering peaks in the distance. The morning following Usurpet’s attempted vengeance and murder, Vladimir had slept for several hours next to the thicket of rose bushes and then moved on, wary of any roadways that Usurpet might be patrolling with pitchfork in hand. He could clearly visualize a scene in which Karadine and her mute mother stood on the back of Usurpet’s wagon, spotting scopes in their hands, trolling the hillside, with Usurpet lashing away at his horse from his seat on the wooden cart. Vladimir stayed to the countryside. When he was hungry, he hunted. He fashioned a makeshift spear and slew — in order — a partridge, two cranes, a five-toed pygmy and a snowy owl. He cooked the pygmy and the fowl over a fire during the daylight hours so as not to be discovered. Vladimir was also fortunate enough to come upon an apple tree at the edge of a farmer’s plantation and fill his satchel to the point of bursting.
Now he’d come to the final township before Lake Baikal and could avoid human contact no longer. Autumn had set in weeks ago and the chill in the air, the lack of give to the ground beneath him, the icy dew covering the earth in the morning, spoke of a fast-approaching winter. Lake Baikal was a large body of water, surrounded by mountains. Vladimir didn’t have time to walk all the way around the lake to reach Irkutsk. His feet hurt. Large blisters had formed on three of his toes, another one at the base of his heel. He needed to stop and rest. He needed at least one night’s sleep in a warm bed before finding his way over the mountains and across the lake. He would need to barter passage.
The town square in Kyakhta was crowded with people, traders mostly, some bartering with their Chinese counterparts, others displaying their wares. Furs, teas and fruits, live cattle and leather products, candles, rhubarb and porcelain. The teeming mass in the square moved like a single unwashed organism, an odor of sour milk and dried sweat wafting from their bodies.
The first individual Vladimir came into contact with was a small boy, perhaps as young as four years old. He had one blackened front tooth and wore a stained coat made of rabbit fur. The boy begged for some spare change. He looked up at Vladimir with pleading eyes, his little face covered in soot. Vladimir reached into his satchel and pulled out a single kopeck. He placed it in the child’s hand. Before he walked two more steps, another child reached out his poor little hand. Then another and another. Vladimir found himself surrounded by eight of these misbegotten orphans, each older than the last, some nearly equal his height. Their reaching hands grabbed at his bag, and what had begun so simply as an act of charity quickly turned into attempted robbery. Vladimir spun around. He knocked over two of the little beggars, grabbed the arm of a third and wrenched it out of his pockets. Just as he cocked his fist and prepared to give the children a stiff thrashing, they scattered. Vladimir looked down at his hand. Surely they weren’t so afraid of him that they gave up and fled.
“Your mistake was handing the first boy a coin.”
Vladimir turned and found himself staring straight into the eyes of a local constable. The man shook Vladimir’s hand. Vladimir, in turn, hiccupped in the man’s face.
“That’s quite a noise you make,” he said.
Vladimir nodded. “Is there any place in Kyakhta to spend the night? An inn perhaps? A lodge along the main street?” he said.
“You’ve come at the very worst time,” the constable said. “This is the last weekend of trading before the entire town closes up shop. The Red Army is three days away. They’ve requested use of our facilities, even our homes. The kerfuffle you see here is the traders completing their final day of business before winter sets in.”
“Why is the army coming? Is the war with Germany near?”
The constable rocked back and forth on his heels. “That I can’t say.”
“You can’t say because you’re not allowed? Or you can’t say because you don’t know?”
“I can’t say.”
Vladimir looked over the man’s shoulder. In the distance the mountains surrounding Lake Baikal stood like an impenetrable barrier. He considered again the possibility of walking around the lake. Vladimir would most likely freeze to death or succumb to malnutrition if he tried.
“What about passage across the lake?” he said. “I need to get to Moscow. The railway in Irkutsk is my only hope.”
The police officer reached into his jacket and produced a pocket watch. He gazed up at the sun peeking through the clouds and adjusted the timepiece, then placed it back in his pocket. He leaned in close to Vladimir’s ear, so close that Vladimir’s hiccups reverberated off his skin. “That kind of information comes with a price in this town.”
Vladimir squinted. He reached inside his satchel and handed the man a fistful of rubles. The man looked down at the bills and then back up at Vladimir.
“That’s all I have to spare,” Vladimir said. “Any more and I won’t have enough for my journey and any information you provide will be worthless.”
The man tucked the money into his pocket. He pointed to a narrow two-story structure across the street. “In that green building, you’ll find the best price for safe passage to Irkutsk. Ask for Yuran. He’ll take care of you.”
Vladimir turned and walked away from the unscrupulous official. He approached the green building and knocked on the door. Nearly a full minute passed before the door opened and a single bloodshot eyeball emerged. Vladimir looked over his shoulder at the police officer. Adjusting his pocket watch again, he motioned for Vladimir to say something.
“I’m looking for Yuran,” Vladimir said.
The door opened farther and an old woman’s face appeared. She stood a thumb’s length shorter than the height of Vladimir’s chest. The old woman’s hair flowed down to her waist. Around her throat was a necklace made of animal bones. They might have been sheep toes or the broken portions of a yak’s femur, for all Vladimir knew. Shrouded in black from head to foot, the woman gave Vladimir a peculiar look.
“Yuran is dead,” she said.
Vladimir turned back and searched the street, but the policeman, if he even was an officer of the law, had disappeared. The streets still teemed with people. Their smell hovered in the air. Bartering voices hollered above the din, and lurking in the shadows of doorways were the vagrant children.
Vladimir turned back to the old woman. “I was told that Yuran could help me get over the mountains and across the lake.”
“Moscow. I need to get to the railway in Irkutsk first. Can Yuran help me?”
“I already told you — he’s dead. As dead as any dead man who ever died.”
“Can you help me then?” he said.
The old woman peered at the crowd behind Vladimir. Two semi-feral steppe horses had just been spooked near the trading stations. One leapt onto its hind legs while the other galloped straight through the crowd.
“Step inside,” she said and grabbed Vladimir’s wrist. The old woman shut the door and now Vladimir was inside her darkened lair. The front room had the appearance of a nest, with tangles of sticks and dried leaves piled in the corners. Vladimir stood next to a life-size wooden carving of a Mongolian warrior. Draped atop the effigy was a collection of unwashed clothes. Dozens of clocks lined the walls, some hand-constructed out of oak, others ceramic, still others fashioned out of steel. Vladimir glanced down the single hallway leading to a sink and a washbasin. The hallway was lined with clocks as well, thirty at least, maybe more. He looked down at the old woman. She was staring at the wall like she’d forgotten he was even in the room.
Vladimir started to speak.
“Shhh,” she said.
Vladimir looked at the wall as well. He hiccupped. Three-point-seven seconds passed and then he hiccupped again. As the third hiccup sounded, the entire wall erupted in sound. All at once the clocks gave birth to their alarms. Birds flew out of trapdoors and tweeted. Bells chimed. Whistles squealed. In the far corner, a gong sounded. The sound was incredible — ten times louder than the clatter outside.
The old woman clasped her hands together and turned to Vladimir with a rapturous look on her face. “Isn’t it wondrous?” she said.
“Does this happen every hour?”
The woman nodded, her red eyes wide and filled with amazement.
“Can you help me get across the lake?” he said.
“You will have to ask my son,” she said.
“Yuran?”
“No. This is the third time I’ve made mention of it. Yuran died last month. He was kicked in the chest by a mule.”
“That’s terrible,” Vladimir said.
The old woman wagged her finger in the air. “Never approach a mule from behind. It won’t know your intentions,” she said. “Now, as to crossing the mountains and the river, my son Dmitri will be able to help you.” She took Vladimir by the arm and led him down the hallway. “Dmitri!” she yelled from beside the washbasin. “Dmitri! Come downstairs.”
Vladimir heard the clumping of feet and an exhausted groan as the woman’s son lumbered down the stairs. He was obese, with a thick head of hair and a protruding eyebrow, his forehead less than three centimeters in height. He gave Vladimir a confused look from the bottom of the stairs. “What?” he said.
“This young man with the hiccups. He needs to cross the Baikal River.”
“It’s a lake, not a river,” her son said. “How many times do I need to tell you?”
“Then he needs to cross the lake. Can you take him tomorrow?”
The son looked at his wristwatch, even though at least forty wall clocks were in plain view. “Yes, I’ll take him. There’s a boat crossing in the afternoon. If we leave at five in the morning, we’ll make it in plenty of time.” He turned to go back upstairs.
“How much does it cost?” Vladimir said.
“Twelve rubles to me for the drive. Ten to the man on the boat,” he said and shuffled upstairs.
“Then it’s decided,” the old woman said.
“I’m also seeking lodging for tonight,” Vladimir said. “I have monies to pay.”
“Excellent,” the old woman said. “How much do you have to pay?”
Vladimir gave her a curious look. “How much does it cost?” he said.
The old woman’s eyes shifted upward and to the left. Vladimir could see the gears shifting inside her head, her mind fluttering with the decision of how much to charge. She grinded her teeth together, looked back at Vladimir and shot out a number. “Forty rubles.”
“I’ll give you eight.”
“Deal,” the old woman said. “You can sleep in Yuran’s old room. They removed his corpse just last week.”
Vladimir crinkled his brow. “Didn’t you say he died a month ago?” he said.
The old woman took Vladimir by the arm and led him up the stairs. “I’ve aired out the room in the time in between. After the mule kicked him, poor Yuran kept on for some four or five nights. I fed him berries and looked after him until he passed.”
Together they walked down the hall to a small room where Vladimir was allowed to use the bedpan and the sink. He washed up with the old woman hovering outside the door and when he emerged, she led him to Yuran’s room. She opened the door and let Vladimir in, then closed it quickly behind him. Vladimir heard the shifting of a lock on the other side. Then a second lock, this one from near the floorboards.
“Dmitri will gather you in the morning,” she said through the door. “Have yourself a pleasant sleep.”
Vladimir looked around. Despite the old woman’s insistence, the room was windowless. There were no clocks on the walls either. A set of three light bulbs dangling from the ceiling was the only source of illumination. Atop the chest of drawers on the far wall, old pictures sat in frames. Vladimir set his satchel down and approached the pictures. They were all of children’s play toys — a swing set in one, a teddy bear and ball left motionless on the side of the road in another. Nowhere in the photos was a child to be seen. No wide, innocent eyes or gap-toothed grins; just faded brown reminders of places where children had once found joy. Vladimir glanced under the bed for any sign of vermin, found none and sat down on the soft mattress. He reached inside his satchel, pulled out an apple and took a bite. When he did, the strangest sensation came over him. It was like he wasn’t alone. A chill shot down his spine. Vladimir walked over and examined the cracks in the door. He turned around quickly, then paused. When he’d entered the green dwelling, it was nearing dusk. He would have eight hours, maybe as many as nine, to sleep before he and Dmitri were to leave.
Vladimir climbed into bed. He wrapped the musty-smelling blankets over his chest and closed his eyes. The night did not go well. On the hour, every hour, the clocks (both upstairs and down) would detonate their long, fierce battle cries. Vladimir would just be drifting off to sleep, his mind heavy, his breathing in muted huffs, when the hour would strike and he would shoot out of bed. The first time the alarm sounded, Vladimir couldn’t believe it. The next hour he was only mildly shocked. By the fourth and fifth occasions, he barely paid the noise any heed.
Vladimir was nestled quite comfortably in the dead man’s pillow when something else entirely woke him from his sleep. He was in such a deep slumber that at first he thought it might have been the wind against his neck. This air was warm and it came in waves. Vladimir shifted, pulling himself from the depths of slumber, and suddenly, before even opening his eyes, he knew it was a person breathing against his neck. The mattress had sunk under weight greater than his own. Vladimir opened a single eyeball. The old woman was sitting on the bed, looming over top of him, her red eyes swirling, mouth bent into a twisted smile. In her hand was a branch covered in berries.
“Your friends are all dead,” she said. “We’re alone now, you and I. There’s no one left in the whole world.”
The ceiling lights quivered.
Her wrinkled hand rubbed his cheek.
“That’s okay, Yuran. You’ll be all right. Mother’s here,” she said. “Eat your berries like a good boy.” She held the berries over Vladimir’s mouth. His lips refused to part, and the look in the old woman’s bloodshot eyes shifted from compassion to determination. Vladimir still hadn’t moved when she shoved the berries hard against his mouth. The coarse branch scraped his chin and still he refused to open. Then, against his will, he hiccupped. His lips parted and two filthy morsels
slipped in before he could close them.
Instantly the old woman’s face changed. She shifted her hand from his cheek to his forehead. “Oh, my dear Yuran,” she said. “I’ll nurse you back to health.”
Vladimir could feel the berries inside his mouth like two tiny, unbroken balloons. Up close this woman’s eyes looked like they’d been pecked at by ravenous blackbirds. Her face contained a galaxy of pores, literally thousands of outlets for perspiration eclipsed only by a single round pimple on her cheek, a red sun orbited by a miniature white mole. The old woman stood up. Vladimir hiccupped again but he didn’t expel the fruit.
Her voice was haunting. It skipped like a broken record player. “I’ll check to see if you’re still alive in the morning, my dear boy,” she said. The old woman kissed him on the forehead, a long, wet fastening of her lips to his skin. When she pulled away, there was a clicking sound like a tongue ungluing from the top of one’s mouth.
She left the room and locked it behind her. Vladimir glanced around the darkened corners of this small cell. He was alone again. He spat the berries out onto the floor and stood up out of bed. He wouldn’t sleep anymore tonight.
The next day, in a village named Listvyanka on the other side of Lake Baikal, Vladimir placed a single foot inside the public transport bus that would take him to the city of Irkutsk. Before he could enter all the way, Dmitri wrapped his short arms around Vladimir’s shoulders. Tears streamed down the large man’s face. Over the past seven and a half hours, Dmitri had poured his heart out to Vladimir, first on the drive to the passage vessel that would take them across lake and later on the ship itself. Dmitri hadn’t intended on traversing the lake with his new hiccupping friend, but once he discovered he’d found a sympathetic ear, it seemed he couldn’t help himself. The scandal was too great. Too long had his shoulders been weighed down by a planet of regret. Dmitri told Vladimir everything. About the bad business dealings, his brother Yuran’s refusal to own up to his obligations. About the illegitimate child begotten to a syphilis-ridden prostitute. How he’d arranged to spook the mule with a flash of gunpowder just as his brother stood behind it. Now he, Dmitri, the good son, the pious one — morally impervious in every way — was a murderer. His brother Yuran was dead. His mother was overcome with grief. The prostitute had complained to the local magistrate and insisted the child was his. Still his family owed a fortune to the government bank and, worse, even more to unscrupulous moneylenders. How would he escape this deep blue anguish that clung to him like a shadow?
The Last Hiccup Page 10