and strong looking, like those of a horse. His tongue probed the stumps and pits in his own worn gums.
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Ah, well, maybe we can start a little further back?’
Anatoly Borisovich took a sip of tea, slurping joyously.
‘Very good. I was born in Siberia—’
‘Maybe not that far—’
‘—a little village not far from Krasnoyarsk. You know Krasnoyarsk?’ The old man waited, and fixed Vlad with a stare that demanded an answer.
He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, of course – it has a hydroelectric dam. Wait, have you seen …’ he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a large, crisp bank note folded neatly in half. ‘See? It’s on the back of the new ten thousand note. The dam.’ He held it to the old man’s face for a moment.
‘Ten thousand rouble note? Are you a millionaire, Vlad?’ Anatoly Borisovich was incredulous.
‘Not yet, but I’m hoping!’ He flashed a smile. ‘But seriously, ten thousand roubles is nothing: about two US dollars. That’s Yeltsin’s inflation for you … we’re all millionaires now!’ Vlad winked as he re-folded the note and placed it carefully back in his pocket.
‘Two dollars? Millionaires?’ The old man’s mouth flopped open and a furry, pale tongue poked out. ‘But what would we want with US dollars, eh? We have our health and this Soviet Union, I mean, um … what’s it called now?’
Vlad shrugged and bent to pick up his pen and paper. ‘What indeed? But continue with your background. You were born in Siberia.’ He leant forward on the chair, thrusting his chin towards the old man. ‘Do you remember your childhood?’
‘Oh yes, it was all to do with being a child. I remember, you know, out there in the forest, everyone had to work. In the forest, with the trees … hard work! Everyone had quotas. You had to fulfil your quota, or your pay was cut. It was piecework. My papa, he over-filled his quotas. All the time. He was a hero, you know! They put him on a flag – for a time. We never saw him.’ The old man’s eyes wandered as his mind strayed back to reach out to his papa.
‘Freezing cold all the time, I should think? And what about the gulags, the political prisoners? Did you see them? It must have been the 1930s?’
Vlad’s questioning seemed vulgar to the old man. He wanted to think about his papa, and his baba, and the pine trees. He didn’t want to think about the camps. He frowned.
‘You may have thousands of roubles, Vlad, but you know little about people. Listen,’ he coughed and sipped his tea, ‘I was a child. I was happy. I didn’t know about any camps. Comrade Stalin was our friend, our protector!’ His eyes glowed. ‘It was just a little village, a straggle of huts with pigs and chickens, hard workers, lazy drunks. It was cold, in winter. But Krasnoyarsk is in the south: we had a summer, oh yes … hot and humid and heaving with midges! Midges so bad they sent the cows mad … or so went the story. There were lots of stories.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Stories come out of the forest, you see … come out of the bark of the trees, to eat up your mind like an army of ants!’ He stopped, grinning. ‘Let me tell you a story.’
‘Is it relevant?’ Vlad answered meekly. He knew he should be drilling for facts, perhaps working through a structured Q and A about the weeks leading up to the old man’s admission. He also knew Polly would be waiting for him after work. She’d probably have sex with him – joyous, sweaty, slippery sex – if she was in a good mood. Which she wouldn’t be, if he was late. He checked the Tag-Heuer watch strapped to his wrist.
‘You said you would listen, Vlad! Please listen!’
The old man wanted to ramble, to go way back. Maybe it would be good for a bit of practical analysis. Maybe, even, he could write it up as a ‘talking cure’? It depended on what was said, of course, but … He had thought the old man would cough up some story about a fall, maybe TB, too much vodka or maybe some old war wound … But a spot of psychoanalysis might be worth a try. A story was a story. And to be honest, he had always loved a good story. Just not as much as sex.
‘Yes, of course, go ahead, Anatoly Borisovich.’
‘Once upon a time, in a forest far away, there lived a young lad: green eyes, impish smile, and cow-lick hair. A simple-clever lad called Tolya—’
‘That’s you?’
‘You’re sharp! A boy called Tolya, simple-clever, who lived with his granny, whom he called Baba, his dog called Lev, and his papa. Away in the East, where the bears prowl and the pine trees sway. Where the saws bite the trees day-in, day-out, and where little boys learn about life …’
Vlad rested the pen nib on the paper, ready to write.
Tolya wrapped his hands around the mug of broth waiting for the warmth to flow through his sore, grubby fingers into the bones of his hands. He was sitting in his corner on the wooden bench, swinging his feet under the table and leaning against the wall. The lamp was lit but his eyes strayed to the blackness beyond the window next to him and his breath steamed up the glass. Not seeing was worse than seeing. He put the mug on the table and wiped the steam with his sleeve. He peered into the hole he’d made and moved the lantern away, the better to make out what was outside.
For a handful of heartbeats there was nothing but darkness and the noise of the wind chasing through the sky and the trees. Then he saw something move near the well. He strained forward, feet nearly touching the floor as he pivoted. He watched the rectangle of black, holding his breath. Nothing materialised into a shape. He slowly breathed out and sat back down to slug the last mouthful of broth. It was good, salty and hot, and he felt cosy with the mug in his hands. He observed his own reflection in the bottom, all fat nose and tiny bug eyes. He chuckled: Tolya the monster, RARRRRR! King of the forest! He roared and nearly choked, coughing broth back into the mug and spluttering barley grain down his chin. He wiped his face on his sleeve. As he turned his head to do so, again he saw a movement in the corner of his eye, far off in the yard: a fluttering, maybe at ground level, maybe in the arms of the pine trees reaching out like giants when the wind blew. It had not been a figure, but a flicker. A flapping wing, perhaps. He shivered, and swung his legs under the table to keep himself brave.
‘We are marching … we are marching … and we march to vic-tor-y!’ he sang in a wobbly, high-pitched, keeping-his-spirits-up voice, determined to sit it out until Baba’s return. He would keep watch, and not be scared. Although being scared was one of his favourite thrills. Just not too scared.
‘Where’s she got to, eh boy? Don’t be scared: there’s nothing to be scared of.’ He addressed Lev the dog in comforting tones. Lev wasn’t scared: Lev was never scared. He was stretched out under the table resting his bones, dreaming of rabbits. Tolya rubbed his ears. ‘She’ll be back in a moment. Or Papa. And he’ll bring some sausage. I’m sure he will. And cheese. And maybe a drawing pad, like he said he would. Hmmm … We are marching, we are marching, and we march to—’
The singing ended in a squeak. A thump had rattled the window. He’d been lying belly-down on the bench, stroking the dog under the table, and had forgotten to keep a look out. Now he dared not look up, dared not move. There was something monstrous in the yard. His heart thudded. There it was again! A tapping on the window, faint but insistent, as if hard, icy fingers were reaching out, piercing the glass, and if he sat up …
‘Lev … Lev!’ His voice
