by Lily Hyde
“Something smells good,” he said, his nose twitching as he heaved himself into a sitting position. And Masha finally realized why he looked so odd.
“Nechipor, you’ve lost your moustache!”
His big fat drooping moustache had been shaved clean off, leaving a defenceless-looking patch of skin beneath his nose. His mouth and chin looked quite different, soft and pale and mushroomy from lack of sun.
Nechipor clapped his hand to his face and stroked the tender place under his nose. “Don’t I know, and it isn’t half draughty without it,” he complained. “Those hideous old hags, may they sleep the rest of their miserable lives in the draught of the devil’s own fart – begging your pardon, ladies – till all their hair falls out.”
“Was it them? Those – those witches?” asked Masha. “You didn’t lose the card games, did you?”
“Wicked as sin and crooked as Satan himself, the lot of them,” he replied, loudly indignant. “What else can you expect from a load of women?”
“Shh!” said Granny. “You’ll wake her up.”
“Who? Oh…” Nechipor noticed Masha’s mother, turning and twisting uneasily in her sleep. An unexpectedly humble, affectionate expression came over his face. “No wonder she’s tired,” he said in a noisy whisper. “I may as well admit it – I’d still be there in that cursed clearing if it weren’t for her.”
“Who, Mama?” Masha said, astonished.
“I’d call her my saving angel, except I’m not sure angels play such a mean game of cards. Still,” Nechipor added, brightening, “I was only losing because the witches had fed me full of that foul brew they were drinking. A lesser man would have been under the table already. Or rather on it, served up for dinner.”
“You mean Mama won the games for you?”
“Those monstrous kin of the devil were cheating outrageously, of course,” Nechipor said hastily.
“And no doubt you were too, just not so successfully,” Granny put in drily. She leant down, smoothing the coverlet over Masha’s mother. “Yes, Sveta always was quite a gambler.”
“But how did she get off the island?” Masha wondered. “And how did I get back here, come to that?”
“We found you curled up outside the door,” said Nechipor. “Perhaps somebody brought you.”
“Perhaps.” Was it the owner of the man’s voice she had heard? That surprised Mashenka? she was almost sure she had recognized. But that was something else she didn’t want to think about too closely. Better to sit quietly and wait for the potatoes to cook.
“Did you find it then, young fellow – young Masha?” asked Nechipor. “Did you find the enchanted place?”
Once again, Masha nodded.
“And what was there? Did you find the treasure?”
“No treasure, Nechipor. I’m sorry.”
Nechipor slapped his huge open palm on the floor. “I might have known! That old slyboots, that flea-bitten, maggoty pile of rabbit droppings, thought he could trick a pair of honest Cossacks, did he? May his nose be covered in warts, his toes go mouldy, and may I be afflicted with eternal bellyache if I ever fall for his tricks again!”
“Shh!” Granny said. “Anyway, you should have known better than to go looking for treasure on the night of Ivana Kupala.”
“You’re right.” Nechipor sighed gustily and clambered to his feet. “I’d better get back to the only treasure I have got – my melon patch. Who knows what’s left there after last night’s shenanigans.”
“Oh, must you go?” Masha’s face fell.
Standing, the Cossack’s topknot almost brushed the trolleybus ceiling. He towered there for a moment, smiling down at her. “Cheer up! Remember, you’re an honorary Cossack. High of heart, we are, and scared of nothing, not even old goat-foot himself and all his wicked minions. You take good care of that mother of yours. Come and visit my field in a couple of weeks. My melons will be fatter than me by then, and I’ll be able to offer you the sweetest, juiciest slice this side of Mirgorod.”
“All right.” Masha smiled back. “I’ll bring Mama.”
“You do that.” Nechipor swept her and Granny a deep bow, and then he had vanished through the doorway.
The potatoes were ready. Masha added butter and seasoning, while Granny rolled the pastry into long sausages which she then sliced into rounds. Together they filled them with mashed potato and pinched the pastry edges together to make vareniky. The dumplings were nearly cooked, floating to the top of the pan of boiling water, before Mama woke. She sat up, her hair sticking out comically round her pale, sleep-crumpled face, and held out her arms. Masha ran into them.
Mama didn’t want to talk either. She sat rocking slightly, letting Masha on her knee untangle the knots of hair with her fingers.
Granny put the vareniky, mixed with crispy slices of fried onion, into a huge clay pot to keep warm. “Your favourite,” she said to Mama gently.
Mama gave her a wan smile. “I used to dream about your potato vareniky, when I was locked up with not enough to eat in Turkey. And on the island too. I got so tired of fish soup over there; I hope I never eat it again as long as I live.”
“How did you get off the island?” Masha asked, picking a last bedraggled dandelion seed – what was that doing there? – out of Mama’s hair and smoothing the strands down tidily for her.
“So many strange things happened last night, I don’t know which were real and which were just dreams,” her mother said reluctantly. “Perhaps it’s better not to talk about it. I thought I went for a ride in this trolleybus, and then I was playing cards somewhere in the woods … I thought I saw all sorts of things. I thought I saw Igor being chased by a tiger, for instance. Have I got a temperature, Granny?” she asked suddenly, sounding just like a little girl.
Granny put a soothing hand on her forehead. “Better lie down, sweetheart,” she said in the loving voice she usually reserved for Masha, and Masha felt a sudden odd jab of jealousy.
Mama leant back against the pillows. “I shouldn’t be here at all, but I haven’t got the strength to run away again,” she said faintly.
Granny served the vareniky and poured them all cups of fragrant herbal tea. Mama lay propped on the pillows, staring at the blue sky through the window with a strange, blank, hopeless expression Masha didn’t like to look at. How odd that they were sitting here quietly, like on any summer’s day when there was nothing to do except eat lunch. Outside, the willow leaves rustled. The goat kid made funny small noises to itself and started nibbling the door curtain.
Then there were footsteps slipping and sliding in the sand, and a voice shouting, “Masha! Babka Praskovia!”
Mama sat bolt upright with a look of panic on her face. But Masha said, “It’s all right – it’s Gena.”
A moment later, Gena’s puzzled face appeared in the doorway. “Has something happened to your trolleybus?” he asked uncertainly. “Something about the door…”
“It’s turned round again, of course!” crowed Masha, clapping her hands. “There was another thunderstorm yesterday, remember?”
Gena frowned, and then dismissed this. He had more important things to say. “You won’t believe what’s happened. Mama’s on her way to tell you but I ran ahead. She’s had this most incredible phone call from Igor.”
“Igor?” cried Masha’s mother, and Gena noticed her for the first time. He goggled, but went on with his news.
“Do you know what he said? Mama reckons he’s gone mad. He was crying and going on about what a terrible man he is, and he said he was attacked by a tiger and he’s nearly dead.”
He watched the reaction to his news. It seemed a bit unsatisfactory. No one fell off their chair, or shrieked with amazement. Masha’s mother, under that weird new hairstyle, had gone awfully pale; Masha was looking almost angry, for some reason. Babka Praskovia only nodded slowly.
“He’s got to be barmy,” said Gena, a bit less confidently. “You know, Mama actually phoned the zoo afterwards, she was that curious. But they sa
id they hadn’t lost any tigers.”
“Perhaps Igor was in the zoo looking for them,” said Masha. She knew perfectly well that wasn’t true. She knew which tiger had nearly killed Igor.
“Hello?” called a voice. Ira knocked on the side of the trolleybus before pulling open the curtain. She looked round at the scene inside with her mouth open. “Sveta? Sveta, is that you?”
“Hello, Ira,” Masha’s mother whispered.
Ira hesitated for a moment. Then she jumped into the trolleybus and threw her arms round her friend. “Sveta darling, where have you been? What have you done to yourself? Svetochka…”
Mama didn’t answer.
“Tell them about Igor.” Gena was impatient with all this hugging and crying. “You won’t believe it,” he said to the trolleybus in general. “Mama didn’t. He’s gone nuts. Completely bonkers. He’s lost his marbles.”
Masha remembered her grandmother’s story, about the man who had gone mad after Ivana Kupala. A cold shiver tiptoed along her spine.
“He said to tell you he was sorry,” Ira said to Masha’s mother. “Sveta, what have you been doing all this time? What’s been going on with Igor?”
“Don’t ask.” Mama sat up, listening. “Oh, who’s that?” she wailed.
A vehicle was approaching, rattling and wheezing. It crashed to a halt outside the trolleybus.
Masha knelt up on the bed and looked out of the window. There stood a strange, ghostly car. It was painted a particularly unpleasant shade of dull, dirty white. The front was all right, but the back was smashed in as if it were made of paper. The engine spluttered and fell silent, and a man got out. He was small and balding, with an unassuming, forgettable face. He cleared his throat nervously, eyeing the trolleybus as if it were a large and unpredictable animal.
Gena pulled aside the door curtain curiously, and Masha joined him in the doorway. The man stared at them, and they stared back. Neither of the children recognized him.
“Got a message,” mumbled the man at last. “For someone called Sveta.” He held out a very fat envelope.
“Sveta who? There’s no one called Sveta here,” said Masha instantly.
Behind them Ira asked, “Who are you?”
“It’s the driver,” said Gena in amazement.
“What driver?”
“Aren’t you?” Gena went on to the man. “Uncle Igor’s driver? And that’s his car. What on earth has happened to it? Why’s it changed colour?” Gena was rather upset to see the state of the beautiful Mercedes. It was unrecognizable. He had only realized what it was from the icons jumbled up along the dashboard, the furry paw and the prayer beads still dangling absurdly from the mirror. And he only knew it was the driver because he had come with the car. Without his sunglasses he looked utterly ordinary and unthreatening. Gena realized he had never even heard him speak before.
“What happened to it? Ask your little girlfriend,” answered the man.
Gena was too surprised to be offended by him calling Masha his girlfriend. And Masha wasn’t listening. She was peering into the car.
“Is that Igor in there?” she asked.
The windows of the Mercedes seemed to have lost some of their tinting. They were a foggy grey now, and behind them a figure was visible, hunched up on the back seat. Masha pushed past Gena and walked over to the car. She bent and looked right in the window. She looked for a long time. Then she turned round, took the envelope from the driver’s hand, and stepped back into the trolleybus. She went straight over and gave the envelope to her mother.
The driver got back in the hideous car and it drove away, lurching and groaning, through the clinging sand.
Ira stared at Masha’s mother, her face full of speechless surmise. Then she shook herself and said briskly, “Well, we should leave you to your lunch. Come along, Gena.”
“Oh, but—” Gena was bursting with questions. What was in the envelope? What had Masha seen in the back of the car? What had happened, for goodness’ sake? But Ira, after kissing Sveta, put her hand on his shoulder and steered him firmly out of the door.
Envelopes! That reminded him. “Wait a minute,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for a thin and rather crumpled envelope. “I’ve got a letter for you, Masha.”
He wanted to tell her more but Ira took the letter and laid it on the bed next to Masha before stepping out into the sunshine. “Come on, Gena. It’s such a lovely day. How about a stroll down to the river?”
“Oh, all right.” Gena suddenly brightened. “We might meet Nechipor.”
“Nechipor? That’s a name you don’t often hear these days. Whoever do you mean?”
Ira and Gena set off into the maze of paths that led through the allotments.
“He’s got a topknot and a moustache and bright red trousers…”
“Oh, another of your and Masha’s Cossack games,” Ira said tolerantly as they walked on.
Slightly jealous, Masha watched their heads bobbing along above the bushes. Then the bushes got too high. The branches trembled and whispered, further, further away. There was a sudden flash of colour: a patch of bright red between the green leaves.
“…a friend of Masha’s,” a voice floated back. “A real, honest-to-God Cossack!”
Chapter 24
Masha sat cross-legged on the riverbank. It was late afternoon; the low sun that lent the oak trees on the island a brief glamour beamed warm on her cheek. In her lap lay the encyclopaedia of animals and the letter Gena had given her.
She closed her eyes and looked at the glowing inside of her eyelids. Orange, striped with black. She thought about the tiger. And she thought about how the tiger must have looked to Igor.
“It must have been a rival mafia gang,” her mother had said. “They do things like this to each other. He can’t have paid them off properly. Yes, that’s it. Or perhaps it was that long-suffering wife of his,” she had said. “Maybe she finally had enough.”
Her mother would not let Masha read the letter inside the fat envelope the driver had brought.
“Then at least tell me what it says,” Masha demanded. “Tell me why he sent all this.”
All this was money. The envelope was so fat because it was stuffed full of hundred-dollar bills. They bulged out of the envelope and fell onto the bed and the floor of the trolleybus.
“Because he’s sorry,” said her mother. “He says. And this – these are my wages. The money I earned when I was forced to work in Turkey.”
“It’s Nechipor’s treasure,” Masha said. She had thought treasure was always gold, strings of pearls, crowns crusted with diamonds. But she supposed money would do as well.
“He says we’re safe; that he won’t make me go back; that he’ll never harm us,” her mama said. She looked blankly at all the money scattered around her, and held out her arms to Masha. “Come and give me a hug, my love. I’m never going away again.”
“None of it has happened like I thought,” Masha said later to Granny, while Mama was outside.
“It never does,” Granny answered. Her leg was still propped on a stool: that was one thing that hadn’t changed.
“Does it hurt much? I’m sorry I didn’t wish for it to get better.”
“It’ll get better anyway,” said Granny. “You can’t wish for everything. You did a good job, Mashenka.”
But I never meant most of it, Masha thought now, sitting in the fiery glow of her closed eyelids with the sun behind them. And I never found out about Mama and Igor. Perhaps it doesn’t matter any more.
The orange glow went dark as a shadow fell across her.
“Hello, sleepyhead.”
Masha opened her eyes and had to blink a lot, dazzled. It was Fyodor Ivanovich.
“Hello,” she said. “Where’s your horse?”
Fyodor Ivanovich looked puzzled. He countered, “Where are your rollerblades?”
“They aren’t mine. I only borrowed them.”
“We got some new work in at the garage today,” Fyodor Ivanovich said. “A
car that’s had some very strange things happen to it. Needs a paint job, as well as some major straightening out. And it was a nice Mercedes once.” He gave Masha a quizzical glance. “But I’m on my way to the church first. Look.” He unfolded a flat paper-wrapped package, and held out a heap of sparkling stars.
“I gave mine away,” Masha said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. So long as whoever you gave it to deserved it.”
“I think so.”
Fyodor Ivanovich wrapped the gleaming handful up again. “So you’re home in your trolleybus. Saw you and your granny there this morning. Nice to be back?”
Masha nodded. “And my mama has come home too,” she said. “For good.”
“Well, there’s good news! So now you’ve got everything you want, have you?”
“Nearly.” Masha waved as he set off along the riverbank. “I haven’t got my own rollerblades,” she called after him.
“I should hope not,” said another voice. Masha jumped. “You children, you want the world – you’re spoilt. That’s what you are, spoilt!”
Masha stared. A shabby old woman pulling a cart on pram wheels had appeared out of nowhere. She had lost her feather boa but she still had the cigarette glued to her lower lip.
“No empty bottles, ducky?” she wheedled, rattling the empty beer and fizzy drink bottles in the cart, which could be returned to the factories for a few coins. “Or how about ten kopeks for a hungry old grandmother, eh?”
Masha drank the last of the lemonade she’d brought with her and handed over the empty bottle. “Here you are.”
The old woman inspected it with a disappointed air before wedging it into her cart. “Looks like Ivana Kupala didn’t bring you much to share. What’s the matter: don’t like what you asked for?”
“It’s a trick really,” said Masha. “That’s why in stories people always make the wrong wish. You think it’s all about knowing, but I don’t think you can know your heart’s desire; or, you can never know what it will do.”
“What were you expecting?” asked the woman, sucking on her cigarette butt. “I told you – you’re spoilt. Think you can have everything. You should count yourself lucky, Mistress Masha. You’re still here; I’m not taking you along with me, much as I’d like to.” And she suddenly reached down, seized Masha’s cheek and squeezed it. “But maybe I’ll come back for you, one of these days.” She grinned, her dirty, leathery face close to Masha’s for a moment. Then she walked away down the bank, her little cart clattering and tinkling along behind her.