‘We act like policemen, Otto. Time cops, when we really ought to be acting like revolutionaries.
Undrehungar.
We could change things.
Really
change things. Not piss about meddling in historical events – what good does that do ultimately? The Russians only change it back! No. We need to get to grips with the underlying
phenomena, with the
infrastructure
of history, not the surface froth.’
Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps we really ought to do things differently. Yet I’m not convinced. Not yet, anyway. Besides, there’s time enough to worry about such things. Time enough and more. Closing my eyes, I let the night swallow me up, my love pressed close, her soft breath in my ear.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. I shall address such thoughts tomorrow.
Only tomorrow is a bright, clear, sunny day, and the shadows of the night are little more than phantoms. The whole town comes out to see us off and, as we row away, the ragged children run alongside the boat, waving and calling, until Velikie Luki has been swallowed by the distance and there is nothing but trees to either side of us.
It is three days’ journey to Zajkava, then at least three, maybe four, across land from Zajkava to Velizh, where we are to pick up our boat on the Mezha, but we are making good time and the weather is perfect. Katerina sits on the prow of the boat, her bare feet dangling over the edge, her toes trailing in the clear, cool water. She is wearing the straw sun hat, but her face and neck have got a real colour these past few days, and I have never seen her quite so happy, so free of cares.
At noon we moor beneath the shade of some overhanging trees to give the crew a break, and while they prepare a meal, the captain, Shaposhnikov, takes me aside.
Shaposhnikov is a short, stocky fellow with a silky black beard and heavy, almost bushy eyebrows. He is in his thirties but has kept himself trim and runs a good boat. Yet while he’s deferential to me, he’s also troubled by my behaviour. All morning he has been silent, but now, out of earshot of the others, he speaks out.
‘Forgive me, Meister,’ he says, ‘but it isn’t right.’
‘
Right
?’ And I think immediately he’s talking about Katerina. I bristle and make to argue, but he quickly speaks again, lifting his broad, strong hand expressively to silence me.
‘Hear me out, Meister Otto. Please.’
I nod at him to continue, but I am tense now, strangely angry. How
dare
he criticise her?
‘You are a generous man, Meister, there’s no doubting that. Only, the feast last night. It wasn’t right. To waste so much on such …
riff-raff
.’
I almost laugh. So that’s it. I make to answer, but once more he hurriedly interrupts me.
‘It is your money, of course. Yours to do as you will, only …’
Only he would rather I spent it on him and his crew than on strangers. But Shaposhnikov is not going to say that in so many words.
‘They seemed like good people,’ I say. ‘Yet you call them riff-raff.’
Shaposhnikov does not flinch or look away. He prides himself on his honesty, and so he answers me bluntly now. ‘You have not had to deal with them these past years. When things were bad …’ His eyes narrow, as if he is remembering how it was, and then he nods. ‘I would not have stopped there, except that it was your wish.’
‘And yet they treated us well.’
Shaposhnikov laughs at that, as if I am naïve. ‘They understand one thing, these river people. That a rich man might be robbed. There is no kindness in them. Which is why I’ve asked my men to take care until we are far from that place. I would not put it past old Grikov to send his men after us, to track us and, when the chance came, rob us.’
I reach out and hold his upper arm in a friendly grip. ‘Dear Shaposhnikov, I thank you for your concern. but do not fear. I have travelled in wilder places than this and survived. But I hear what you are saying and will take greater care in future.’
My little speech does not, of course, address his main point – that he would rather have me spend whatever money I wish to throw about on him rather than strangers – but he will not find me ungenerous.
Returning to the boat, I find Katerina fishing, with a pole and a line. One of the younger crew members is nearby, offering her advice, but, seeing me, he quickly lowers his head and moves away.
‘What’s this?’ I ask gently, settling alongside her, and staring down into the bright, fast-flowing water. ‘Learning to fish?’
She looks sideways at me and smiles. ‘I thought it might be a useful skill to learn.’
‘It is.’
I say no more, but watch her for a while, enjoying the look of concentration in her face.
‘Otto?’
‘Yes?’
‘When are we going to begin?’
‘Begin?’
‘You promised me, remember?’
‘Ah …’ I smile. ‘Right now if you like.’
She grins. ‘Okay.’
‘What you’re holding, that is
die Stange
.’
‘Dee-stan-ger?’
‘That’s right.
Die Stange
. The rod.’
‘And the fish?’
‘Is
der fische
.’
‘Der fish-er.’
I laugh, then, moved by her beauty, reach across to lay my fingers gently on her neck. ‘
Siehe, wir lieben nicht, wie die Blumen, aus einem einzigen Jahr; uns steigt, wo wir lieben, unvordenklicher Saft in die Arme
.’
The German words are not the Old High German from the early years of the twenty-first century. There are those who consider my native tongue ugly and cumbersome, yet in the hands of a poet it can sing.
Katerina gives a little shiver and then looks to me, seeing the seriousness in my eyes. I have never spoken in my own tongue to her before this moment, yet while the words mean nothing to her, she seems to sense their meaning.
‘What was that, Otto?’
‘A poem,’ I say, then, realising she has no clue as to what a poem is, I add. ‘A song without a tune.’
‘What does it mean?’
I consider, then, putting on my best oratory manner, translate for her: ‘“Look, we don’t love like flowers, with only a single season behind us; immemorial sap mounts in our arms when we love.”’
She stares at me, astonished. ‘Otto, that’s beautiful. Did
you
write it?’
I could lie and say yes. I could claim it for my own and she would never know. Only I would never lie to her.
‘No. It was written by a countryman of mine. A young man called Rilke. Rainer Maria Rilke.’
‘Maria? But that’s a woman’s name.’
I smile. ‘Yes. But not always.’
She looks away, then, frowning, lets the pole drop into the water.
‘Katerina?’
As it floats away, she watches it a moment, then turns back, meeting my eyes.
‘Speak to me once more, Otto, in your own tongue. Tell me you love me. Tell me you’ll never go away.’
As evening falls, Shaposhnikov lights torches all about the gunwhales of the boat, and as the darkness intensifies, so the world takes on a different, almost magical look. With Katerina resting at my side, I watch the mist-wreathed river flow past, soothed by the song of the boatmen as they pull on the oars. The water is wide here, the current sluggish. At the prow, Grigor, Shaposhnikov’s chief hand, leans out, staring into the darkness up ahead, trying to locate a place to moor for the night.
The forest is dense on either side, pressed close against the water’s edge. As we follow a left turn in the river, however, it begins to thin out, and as the light from the burning torches illuminates the far bank, a gasp comes from the men.
Katerina is dozing, but the sudden interruption to the regular stroke of the oars, the lurch to one side as the boatmen stand and stare, wakes her.
‘Otto …?’
I swallow, taking in the sight.
There, on the far bank where the trees have been cleared, is a makeshift gibbet. The long, straight trunk of a tree has been trimmed of its branches, lifted up between two trees and wedged between them to form a beam. From that beam hang six shadowy figures, their heads lolling to one side, the necks snapped, their arms dangling lifeless at their sides.
As the boat drifts closer, I hear Katerina catch her breath. Of the six, two are boys, one barely out of infancy.
‘Robbers,’ Shaposhnikov says, reading the sign that has been painted crudely on a plank propped up against the left-hand tree.
As the torches throw more light upon them, so the horror increases. Their faces are black, the eye sockets empty, and their flesh …
They have been partly eaten by animals. One can see the bones poking from among the weatherworn rags of their clothes.
Katerina turns from the sight, burrowing into my side. ‘God protect us …’
I look past her as we drift slowly past the gruesome sight, watching it unflinchingly, reminding myself that this is how it is back in this age: lawless and brutal. Only rich men rely upon the courts in Rus’. Out here, in this wilderness,
this
is justice.
That night we sleep onshore, among the others, Katerina held close in my arms. The sight has disturbed her, robbed her of her gay spirits, and though she sleeps, her sleep is troubled and more than once she calls out, as if seeing the dangling men once more. And not just the men.
‘
Boys, Otto. They were only boys
.’
I sigh, then try to sleep, but sleep will not come, and as the morning light seeps back into the world, I wonder what other sights we shall see on our travels, and what Katerina will make of them.
She has seen a great deal, in her own way. Novgorod, while paradise compared to most of Rus’, is still a frontier town, and twice in her short life she has suffered hardship. Out here, in the wilds, however, things are very different. Out here there is nothing between you and your fellow man. Nothing but your own wit and strength. Was I right to place her in such danger?
Then again, could I have left her? Would I even have made such a journey without her?
With her pressed close and warm I know the answer: I would risk everything just to be with her. I would defy a thousand cut-throats and river pirates if only she were there beside me.
Besides, I have something no river pirate has. A Kolbe model 9.3. The best needle-gun ever made. If the worst comes to the worst I’ll shoot my way out of trouble.
Katerina wakes and looks up into my face, then gets up on to her elbow, yawning, a puzzled look in her eyes. ‘Otto? What is it? Why are you smiling like that?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, smoothing her brow with my fingertips. ‘Nothing.’
Sometimes – just sometimes – there’s a dark humour in anachronism.
Zajkava is a shit-hole: a collection of ragged huts and a rotted wooden jetty. Nor are the old man and his boy – my guides across country to Velizh – anywhere to be seen.
‘We’re a day early,’ Shaposhnikov says, as if to excuse him. ‘He’ll be here. He always is.’
But I’m not happy. He should have been here
now
. I’ve paid him to be.
My bad mood is reflected by the weather. It’s been overcast all day, but now – for the first time on our journey – it begins to rain; not heavy rain, nor cold, yet it seems ominous somehow.
The boatmen unload the cart, and while I check that the sled is okay, Katerina explores the village, trailed by Mikhail, one of Shaposhnikov’s younger hands, to ensure she comes to no harm.
It doesn’t take her long. As I say, there’s little here. But there’s the problem of where to stay overnight. None of the huts look suitable and Shaposhnikov wants to get back, otherwise we’d stay on-board the boat. From the look of the sky, however, it’s set to rain all evening.
In the end I persuade Shaposhnikov to stay on. He counts the silver coins I’ve tipped into his hand, then grunts his satisfaction.
‘All right,’ he says, ‘but we leave at first light.’
By nightfall there’s still no sign of our guide, so Shaposhnikov has two of his men guard the cart, while Katerina and I settle on-board, beneath an improvised awning. The boatmen don’t worry whether it’s raining or not. It’s a warm night and they simply strip off their tops and sit there in their rough hessian trousers, drinking and talking late into the night, their laughter reassuring us.
We are up before the dawn, and once Shaposhnikov has fed his crew we make our farewells, the men queuing in a line to kiss and hug their darling Katerina goodbye. It’s all very amiable, and my hand is grasped time after time, my back slapped, and we are wished ‘good fortune and a safe journey’ a dozen times before finally they climb into the boat and depart.
It will be an easier journey home for them, going with the current, and Shaposhnikov takes with him a letter I’ve penned to Ernst. But it will be a week or more before Ernst gets to see what I’ve written, and our concern now is that the old man has let us down. Katerina and I wait by the river, the cart with our sled on resting nearby, never out of our sight.
The villagers keep out of our way, yet we are watched every moment with a hostility that only living in a place like this could breed.
I am beginning to despair of our guide ever turning up when, just after noon, he walks out of the forest, his boy – a mute who can be no more than six or seven – a little way behind, leading a small, very stubborn-looking donkey.
‘Ah,’ he says, wiping his mouth with his hand and then pulling at his long grey beard. ‘There you are.‘
He looks like a vagrant and I sense at once that there’s no point being angry with him. We have lunch of sorts – a meagre meal bought off the locals, mainly consisting of over-cooked vegetables – and then set off, Katerina and I, like our guides, barefoot, the donkey drawing the cart reluctantly, it seems, and only after the boy has beaten it with a stick into moving.
Russia
, I think.
The old man wants to talk, of course, but his words are those of an untutored imbecile, and after a while I find myself wishing he’d be silent. It’s now that Katerina proves her worth, for, sensing my irritation, she takes on herself the task of talking to him, treating him deferentially, almost as if he were her father, and after a while the two of them are laughing and joking.