Nine Layers of Sky (13 page)

Interlude

BYELOVODYE, N.E. 80

Anikova rejected the offer of a staff car, saying that she preferred to walk instead. She was dawdling, reluctant to get to her appointment on time; she had tried very hard to get out of it, but the Mechvor had insisted.

“I know what I saw,” Anikova had told her. “A breach, that was all, and an accident that followed. I don’t need counseling.”

“You are afraid of me,” the Mechvor said, her head on one side. Anikova found the gesture both affected and sinister. She caught a glimpse of Kitai’s avatar, coiled within her like the double exposure of a photograph, and thought again:
Bozhie mne. What are you?
The Mechvor’s strangeness, her inhumanity, were becoming harder to ignore. Kitai put a hand on Anikova’s arm with her customarily delicate concern. “You have no reason to fear me, Colonel. Or may I address you as Shadia Marianovna?”

“If you want,” Anikova mumbled ungraciously.

“So. You saw a breach. And you acted responsibly in a most dangerous situation. You know that Central Command is proposing to decorate you for it?”

She spoke as though offering sweets to a child.

Anikova said, “I have a chestful of medals. I clank like a bucket whenever I stand up. You know as well as I do that it doesn’t mean anything.” She did not want to add:
What about the men whose lives I could not save?
Do I get a medal for them, too?
She knew perfectly well that this was a probe; that underneath the veil of concern, Kitai wanted to find out what else Anikova might have glimpsed in that sudden flickering inferno.

“Look,” she said, controlling her distaste with difficulty. “It’s very good of you to be so concerned, and I know that Central Command likes people to have a psychological assessment when this kind of situation occurs, but it really isn’t necessary. I prefer to deal with things in my own way.”
I do not need this endless probing
into my psyche, this work of dream-stealers. I need silence
and the lake, and my family, that is all.
But to say so might arouse suspicions in the Mechvor, the realization that perhaps Anikova was not the perfect Party tool after all, but had thoughts and feelings of her own. So Anikova took a deep breath and forced the words out.

“Maybe you’re right, however. Perhaps counseling might help me to deal with things better.”

The Mechvor smiled with relief. “There’s often an initial resistance, Shadia Marianovna. It’s perfectly normal. Please don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”

But it was not what she had seen through the breach that concerned Anikova, but what else Kitai might discover lurking inside her head, what heretical thoughts. Leaving the Mechvor behind, she walked slowly along the street, remembering.

She had been fifteen, and the family had gone to the dacha outside Azhutsk for the weekend. Pergama Province sweltered in the heat and Anikova couldn’t sleep. At last she threw the windows open, activating the chemical screen that kept the insects at bay, but outside the evening air was baking. Light lingered in the west, a deep, clear aquamarine, and the moon was rising like a shadow on the sky. Through the nightscreen, the woods shimmered in a haze.

There was a tree outside the window, in which a younger Anikova had sat for hours, hiding from her sisters in the sinking twilight. Now, Anikova turned to switch off the light, and when she looked back, the
rusalka
was sitting in the branches. The creature’s almond eyes glowed. She looked like a medieval maiden, demure in the branches of the tree. Anikova stood frozen at the window. She saw the
rusalka
’s mouth open, and the sudden, frantic fear made her tug the windows shut. Then the
rusalka
was gone, drawing back through the summery leaves without a sound.

Later that night, lying sleepless and clammy in her bed, Anikova heard someone singing in the woods. The song called to her of the coolness of the forest, and the streams that poured down through the crags, and the great dreaming land. Anikova thought of the mouth that was making that song, and only that image kept her from slipping downstairs and out into the enticing trees. At last, she thought she heard laughter, faint and moving swiftly away.

She knew the prohibitions. It was not permitted to speak of the
rusalki,
or to think about them. They, and the things like them, were the soft heel in the armor of the Republic: the old dreams that helped the world to crack. The Mechvor reminded Anikova of the
rusalka,
yet she knew that they were not the same. Kitai was something else, something ancient harnessed in the service of the State, but the similarity remained, a disturbing echo of difference. Anikova did not know whether the Mechvor would see the
rusalka
looking back at her out of memory, and she was afraid of what might happen in the course of the counseling session.

She resolved to think only of the breach: only of fire and death and horror. She must force from her mind all criticisms of Central Command’s most recent actions. Then, perhaps, Kitai would be deceived, and leave her alone.

Part Five

One

ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

To Elena, this felt like the world they knew: Almaty, with a spring storm raging. But they were no longer on the road that led beneath the slopes of Koktubye. There was cold snow under her feet and the sharp smell of pines. She looked up and saw a ragged pinnacle of rock through a break in the clouds. She had lost her shoes. Ilya’s hand, painfully clasping her own, was icy.

“We’re in the mountains,” she cried above the wind. She saw him nod.

“We’ve got to find shelter. It’s nearly dark.”

She followed him through the trees, wincing with every step. The snow had already soaked through her tights, biting her with its chill. She brushed aside wet, heavy branches and thought longingly of the world they had left. But it had not been so tranquil at the end, with those swift planes. She thought of the warriors and the hiss of arrows in the dark, and shivered, but there was a more immediate threat. If they could not find shelter, it would be the end of them both. It was still early enough in the year to die of exposure.

She tried to fix their position. Surely that was the peak of Karniznaya above them, seen from behind? But the nearest village, in that case, would be Ozyomy, over a dozen kilometers away, and hard going even in fine weather.

“Elena!” Ilya shouted. “Do you know where we are?”

“I think so. But we’re nowhere near a village. Our best chance is to find one of the herders’ huts on the
zhelau.
On the pastures,” she explained, as Ilya frowned. “We need to head down beneath the snow line.”

She could no longer feel her feet. Ilya grasped her arm, helping her when she stumbled.

“Look,” he said. “This is foolish. Father Frost isn’t going to show up and give you shoes, you know. . . . Take my boots.” Before she could protest, he reached down, undid the laces, and stripped them off.

“I don’t know about Father Frost—I think I’m turning into the Snowmaiden. What about you?”

“I went barefoot for years. I was a peasant before I was a hero. Don’t underestimate me.”

It was, she had to admit, much easier with the boots, even if they were several sizes too big. Together, they ducked under branches and kicked aside the snow. At last, the snow grew patchier and then vanished. They came out into a wide expanse of grass, battered flat by the storm. Above the peaks, a scrap of sky showed a livid green: the last of the day’s light. On the other side of the
zhelau,
Elena could see a small dark square.

“There’s a hut! Look.”

She ploughed into waist-deep, wet grass. In minutes, without the protection offered by the trees, her coat was soaked. By the time they reached the hut, her hair was plastered over her face and she could barely see. She fell through the door.

“Is there a stove?” Ilya asked behind her.

“Stove, matches, and kindling.”

In these high pastures, where people had been eking out a living for centuries, warmth meant the difference between life and death. There were two bunks, with rough blankets that still smelled of horses. Ilya sank down onto the lower one as though his strings had been cut. Elena, trying to ignore the numbness in her hands, fumbled with the kindling and eventually lit it. The flame flared up, sending shadows spinning across the wooden walls and floor. She struggled out of her wet coat, wrinkling her nose at the odor of sodden fur. Outside, it was now quite dark.

Smoke spiraled up, sending Ilya into a coughing fit. He seemed unable to stop: doubled over, racked for breath. It was another unwelcome reminder of tuberculosis. Even if it wasn’t TB, he had still spent hours in the cold and the wet and there could be no doctor in reach, even if he was willing to take the risk of discovery.

“Ilya, you have to tell me. Are you ill?” Feeling inadequate, she found a battered kettle and a water bottle. The water smelled musty and old, but it would be all right if it was boiled. Somewhere, there might be tea. She set the kettle on the stove.

“Not ill,” Ilya gasped. “Anyway, can’t die. Unfortunately.”

She frowned. “You’d better tell me what’s wrong. Are you an addict?”

He looked up. His pupils were pinpointed against the pale eyes. He managed to smile. “So obvious, eh?”

Without comment, Elena sat down beside him and took his hand. The bandage had come off; a raw red scar crossed his palm. She rolled back the thick sleeve of his shirt. Needle marks covered the inside of his forearm; he must be running out of veins by now.

“When did you last take it?”

“Few days ago. I swore I’d kick it, in the cathedral.” He gave a dry, rasping laugh. “I’m sick of it. I started to bore myself years before you were alive, and now it’s finally happened. I’m sick of being sick.”

“Why did you start?” she asked; adding dryly, “Was that boredom, too?”

“I wanted to blot out myself, the world, everything. I don’t imagine it’s an uncommon reason.”

“No, I don’t imagine it is.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Ilya said, “Elena, you shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll be fit to travel.”

“Withdrawal’s not supposed to be all that quick, Ilya,” Elena said doubtfully. “Have you tried it before?”

He winced. “Once, a long time ago.” His gaze flickered, shifty and ashamed. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been an addict. It was hard. Right now, my very bones hurt, but I heal quickly.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” There was a flicker of something behind his eyes, a familiar longing, and she thought,
If he wants me to sleep with him,
what am I going to do?
She was still holding his hand, his fingers curled cold in her own, and she was sharply aware of his presence and their isolation. The sensible side of her counseled caution, but Elena had a feeling that caution could be overridden at any moment.

The realization of her attraction to him took her by surprise. It was a long time since she had wanted to be held by anyone, and he lacked both Yuri Golynski’s flashy good looks and confident air. Still, she thought, Ilya might not be a cosmonaut, but he was supposed to be a hero, wasn’t he? It seemed she was still drawn to a particular type.

But Ilya said only, “The kettle’s boiling.”

She found a packet of black tea. There was no food and Elena was uncomfortably reminded that she had not eaten all day, but there was no help for it.

“It’s a good thing we’re Russian,” she remarked.

“Why is that?”

“We’re used to hunger and cold.”

Ilya smiled. “Not your generation, surely? Not under these new men: Brezhnev, Gorbachev, Putin . . .”

Names like beads on a chain, or those nested dolls that were so popular with the few tourists who made it as far as Almaty—parodies of politicians.

Elena laughed. “
New
men? Brezhnev’s been gone for thirty years, I’m happy to say. That’s when the USSR really started to die, if you ask me—during the
Zastoi,
the Stagnancy.”

“At least there was a degree of peace. And those men are new to me.”

“If you are truly as old as you say you are,” Elena said dubiously, for she still did not quite believe him, “you must have seen a host of changes in Russia.”

“Political changes, yes. But in reality? In eight hundred years, most of what I’ve seen has been people having kids, growing turnips, getting sick. They complain about the system—tsars or the Party, doesn’t matter what the theory is, the reality doesn’t seem to change all that much for most people. They grumble, they endure. And then there are the deaths.” His face creased momentarily, as if he did not want to face what he was saying. “All the deaths. Forty million, so they say, in the last century, what with the wars, the purges, enforced collectivization . . . And Communism was still better than the time of the tsars, except for Stalin. Russia is built on death. Yours has been a peaceful time, by comparison. I don’t imagine you had to look over your shoulder too much, or watch your words.” The irony of what he was saying must have struck him, for he smiled.

“Not in my time,” Elena said. “You wouldn’t want to say anything too stupid in public, obviously, and you don’t want to fall foul of the authorities. That’s why you and I made a run for it, after all. I don’t see a whole lot of difference before the end of the Soviet Union and now. Things have shifted, that’s all. We still have the secret police, but now we’ve got the
Mafiya
as well. Democracy just means that a few families and their cronies run things rather than the Party, as far as I can see. Everyone’s greedy, because they have to be. Everyone steals as much as they can from the State. We’ve become a nation of thieves. When I was a little girl, you’d have to queue in the shops for food, and things often ran out, or they’d produce too much of one thing. We were too big a country for a command economy to work properly. Now there’s plenty of stuff in the shops, but no one can afford it. It all depends on what
blat
you have, what pull, whether you know enough people in power to give you a ‘roof.’ ”

Her colleague’s remark echoed in memory:
We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us.
She repeated this to Ilya. “That’s all the country runs on now, dreams and air. Perhaps it’s always been this way.”

“It’s the way things are,” Ilya said. “You just have to adapt.”

“Yes, you have to adapt.” But he hadn’t done so well in adapting, she thought. The tracks on his arms were a testament to that. He must have read her expression, for he looked away.

“Here’s your tea,” she told him. She passed him a tin cup and he sipped it in silence. Elena felt suddenly exhausted. “Look, I’m going to try and phone my mother, then get some sleep,” she said. “You should do the same.”

“I don’t need much persuading.” But she could still feel his eyes upon her as she reached for the mobile and dialed the number. It rang endlessly, but they had to be there, for the answerphone did not come on. Finally a voice said,
“Da?”

Elena swallowed her relief. It was Anna, not her mother.

“It’s me.” The line crackled with static.

“Elena? Is that you? Where are you? We’ve been worried to death.”

“I’m just outside Almaty. Look, try not to worry. Have the
militzia
been round?”

“
What?
No. Have you been in an accident? We got your message, but when you didn’t come in for supper, we didn’t know what to think. I waited up, but I made Mama go to bed. She’s asleep. Are you all right?” Anna’s voice was sharp with worry.

“I’m fine, but I’ve run into a few problems,” Elena said. Hastily, she gave Anna an edited version of events, leaving Ilya out of the narrative as much as she could. “Anna, I’ve got some money. One of the men paid me before—well, I got paid, anyway. I’m going to send it to you. When you get it, just take off. Go to Moscow. You’ve got my mobile number if you need to get in touch, or you can phone one of my friends.”

“But are you sure they’re even after you?” Anna’s voice at the other end of the telephone was distant and puzzled. “I mean, no one’s called or been round, and you know what the authorities are like if they suspect something. . . . And there wasn’t anything about a murder on the news, either.”

“I don’t know why the
militzia
haven’t contacted you. You’d better tell Mama what’s going on, but try not to make it sound too serious or she’ll worry herself to death. I—” But then the line went dead. It occurred to Elena that the phone at the flat might have been tapped, but she had not heard any of the telltale signs: the clicking or whistling. She dialed again, but the signal had gone.

“Your mother?” Ilya asked.

“No, my sister.”

“You live with them?” He paused, then added, “You’re not married?”

“Not anymore.”

“No kids?”

She was silent. He said quickly, “I’m sorry, Elena. I shouldn’t be prying into your personal life.”

“It’s okay.” She reached out and touched his hand. He nodded, forgiven, and dropped into a doze.

Swallowing the scalding tea, Elena hauled herself up onto the top bunk and covered herself with the blanket, then stripped off her wet hose. There was no lavatory in the hut; she would just have to go outside and manage as best she could if the need arose. She tucked her handbag beside the lumpy pillow, trying to make sure that the object would be safe. The blanket was thick and scratchy, but at least it was warm. The glow of the stove and Ilya’s ragged breathing provided the illusion of companionship and comfort.

She was disconcerted by the thought that it would be easy enough to slip down and join him. Something told her he’d welcome it, and the memory of his body so close to her own was sharp in her mind.
You’ve only
just met him. You don’t know anything about him, and he
might be mad. What about AIDS? You know what they say
about addicts.
It was a litany of reasons, the counsel of common sense, but her emotions and her body were dictating otherwise.
Think of something else. Remember
what happened to you today, this so-miraculous thing.

It worked. When she finally fell asleep, it was with the memory of a different world in her mind.