“Let’s not react hastily. We mightn’t need outside help. I’ll know in a moment or so. A few minutes’delay won’t harm him. . . If that gun’s a stage prop, where did he get a live bullet from? Was it a lucky charm? Something he kept out of devilry?”
Stooping, Sergey eased the pistol out of Mikhail’s hand. Straightening up, he broke the chamber open.
“Well, it’s empty now . . . Damn it, if this was a blank pistol it oughtn’t to be able to take live ammo. This isn’t any prop—what’s it doing here?”
“Maybe it is Osip’s?” said Felix. “He said he didn’t know anything about it—so maybe he did? Methinks the lady doth protest . . .”
“Perhaps,” said Kirilenko, “it was a stage prop earlier on this weekend . . .”
“What do you mean by that?”
“And now it isn’t. Not any longer.”
“Will somebody please call an ambulance?” Sonya begged. “Or else I will.”
Kirilenko gripped her arm tightly with one hand. “If you really wanted to, you’d be doing that now—not asking us. The answer’s no. The bullet only grazed the bone. Maybe he’ll have some concussion, and a rotten headache—but there won’t be any internal damage. He’s lucky.”
“Is that what he is: lucky? So why did he do it?”
“Too much Chekhov on the brain,” snapped Sergey. “He must have got a bloody big surprise when the gun went off.”
Soon Osip bustled in with a First Aid box and a bowl of hot water. Kirilenko rummaged for scissors and began snipping away Mikhail’s blood-matted hair.
While this was going on, Felix cornered the caretaker. “Do you swear you know nothing about the gun?”
“What do I want a gun for?”
“Well, how did it get here, man?”
As Kirilenko began sponging, Mikhail uttered a faint groan.
“Why, that’s Chekhov’s pistol!” Sonya exclaimed suddenly. “That’s the gun he brought out to Siberia with him. Now it’s been fired at last. That’s it!”
“Brilliant!” Sergey fairly snarled at her. “So Chekhov left his gun behind in Krasnoyarsk—and it’s been lying around in a basket ever since, waiting for us? How clever of you, Sherlock Suslova. That solves it all. 77/ tell you what’s to be done: Osip is going to take the gun out and bury it in the woods—right now. And we’ll all forget about it. Okay, Ossy?”
“If the Professor says Mr Petrov’s okay. . .That seems sensible. I mean, we don’t want any more trouble—we’ve got enough on our plate as it is.”
Kirilenko bandaged Mikhail’s head tightly. Sergey strode over to Osip and thrust the pistol at him. Hastily Osip fumbled it away out of sight.
“We can say he slipped on the ice,” said the caretaker. “Cracked his noddle, he did. That’s simple enough.”
Shortly, Mikhail opened his eyes and moaned. Felix bent over him. “You had a little accident, Mike.”
“Uh?”
“An accident.”
“Eh? What? Did I?”
“You did.”
“Don’t remember a thing—what’s all this blood?”
“It’s yours, dear boy. By the way, can you tell me: what is the last thing you remernber?”
“Uh? Oh, I was thumbing through The Apple Orchard."
“And an apple fell down on his noddle—as on Isaac Newton’s.”
“Hush, Sergey! Now, Mike, tell me: what is The Apple Orchard?”
“Eh? What a thing to ask a wounded trooper.” Mikhail began struggling to sit up. Kirilenko restrained him. Mikhail lay back on the parquet, squinting up. “Well, last time I was around it was a certain comedy by old Anton Pavlovich—”
“Mmm. And how about The Cherry Orchard?”
“Dunno. Old Antosha wrote an Apple Orchard. Well, he did, an* all! What are you lot staring at me for? I ain’t never heard of any Cherry Orchard.”
“You aren’t by any chance having us on, dear boy?”
“About what? Look, my head’s hurting.”
“My poor baby,” crooned Sonya. She stroked Mikhail’s cheek. “I repeat: you aren’t having us on about The Apple Orchard?” “Of course I ain’t having you on, you daft bugger. What am I lying on the floor for?”
“A meteor banged you on the grey matter,” said Sergey. “What did you think? Happens all the time.”
Sonya cradled Mikhail. “My poor baby shot himself—don’t mock him.”
“Shot? Myself? What with?”
“With a gun.”
“Where is it, then? Show me!”
However, Osip had already ambled, crab-like, out of the library to conceal the evidence . . .
“Never mind about that,” said Felix. “How about Uncle Vanya?”
“Eh? I haven’t got any Uncle Vanya.”
“Written by the well-known Mr A. P. Chekhov.”
“Ah, you mean Uncle Ivan1. Why not call a thing by its proper name? What is this, anyway: a drama quiz in a loony bin? You beat somebody over the head, and ask them stupid questions while they’re lying half-witted.” Reaching up, Mikhail caught hold of Kirilenko’s lapel. “Is this another one of your fabulous new psycho-techniques?”
Firmly Kirilenko removed Mikhail’s hand. “It is not. I assure you.’’
“And how about Commander Anton Astrov?’’ pursued Felix.
“Uh?’’
“Of the time-ship Tsiolkovsky.”
“I give up! You’re all barmy. God, I feel dizzy.’’ Mikhail shut his eyes tight.
“And why are we in this building, Mike—can you tell me that?’’
Mikhail opened his left eye a crack. “Could it be to play charades?’’
“Please be serious.’’
“Well, we’re here to rough out the plot for a film, ain’t we?’’
“Yes? Carry on.’’
“Called Chekhov’s Journey."
“And what’s it about?’’
“It’s about Chekhov’s bloody journey, what else? It’s about his sodding Tunguska Expedition. Now, if the interrogation’s quite over, can I please get up? I’ll feel a lot safer up on my feet than with you lot all leering down at me.’’
Sonya grasped his arm, and Kirilenko took his other arm. Together they helped Mikhail up, and over to the nearest chair. His eyes watered. His bandaged head lolled against the antimacassar.
“If only you knew,’’ murmured Sonya. “If only you knew.’’
“If only I knew what?’’
“If I told you it wouldn’t help your headache much.’’
Kirilenko collected up the First Aid box and his blood-stained hanky. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuffed these into an empty space in one of the bookcases, directly following on the last volume of the Collected Works of M. M. Gorky. From somewhere outside came a faint thumping sound: Osip must be trying to hack a hole in the frozen ground with a pick or a chopping hoe, to bury the pistol . . .
“If only ... If only I’d never come here,’’ said Kirilenko. “But I did. So now we’ve collided with another world . . .’’
Misunderstanding him, Mikhail rubbed his bandages ruefully. “Just as the past collided with the future, at the time of the Revolution! Or was it with my skull—eh, Sergey? Ah well: onward into the future, say I! A future of hope and happiness!’’ He cupped a hand behind his ear. “Hark, do I hear the jingle of the harness bells? Or is it my head that’s ringing?’’
“I’ve had horses up to here." Sergey made a throat-slitting gesture. “A taxi’ll suit me fine . . . What am I thinking of? We’ve still got the Volga.’’ He pulled out the car keys and stared at them, then bit the ignition key in the manner of a peasant testing a coin for counterfeit.
“Remember,’’ said Felix, “the street names might have changed.’’
“So what? I don’t doubt they’ll still be the same streets. It’ll be the same old world as ever—give or take the odd cherry orchard . . . Does anything ever really change?’’
“My goodness,’’ said Mikhail, “you’ve certainly changed your tune! You
sound just like one of Anton’s people. Poor burnt-out Sergey, all passion spent—and now you’re exhausted. In fact,’’ and Mikhail began to chuckle, “you sound rather like Sidorov! Possessed by an event too big for him, which nobody else even noticed till Anton came along . . . Surely a simple little film script isn’t such a challenge to a professional writer?’’ Tears ran down Mikhail’s cheeks: tears of laughter, and the strain brought a tiny, fresh spot of blood to the surface, to stain his bandage.
“Aren’t you the lucky one?’’ cried Sergey bitterly. “Shall we tell him, folks?’’
“Careful!’’ Kirilenko interposed. “Mikhail’s our guide now. He’s our lifeline—our interpreter, should we need one. He knows where he is. He belongs.’’
Mikhail carried on chortling. “You people are really too much. You’re as crazy as coots!’’
Like the pulse of his blood and the beat of his heart, the faint thumping continued from outside as Osip hacked away remorselessly at the soil, which was as hard as iron.
After a while the noise stopped. Perhaps Osip had realized that the last place to hide something was under a freshly chopped-up heap of soil, near the road.
Watson, Ian - Novel 11 Page 17