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 mans admission. He also knew Polly would be waiting for him after work. Shed probably have sex with him joyous, sweaty, slippery sex if she was in a good mood. Which she wouldnt 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
Thats you?
Youre 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 hed 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 Babas return. He would keep watch, and not be scared. Although being scared was one of his favourite thrills. Just not too scared.
Wheres she got to, eh boy? Dont be scared: theres nothing to be scared of. He addressed Lev the dog in comforting tones. Lev wasnt scared: Lev was never scared. He was stretched out under the table resting his bones, dreaming of rabbits. Tolya rubbed his ears. Shell be back in a moment. Or Papa. And hell bring some sausage. Im 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. Hed 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 squeezed between taut vocal cords, his body stiff like washing left in the frost. Lev come here, boy! The dog looked up drowsily, puzzled by the child. He licked the empty hand proffered to him and flopped back down with a groan.
Lev! listen! Theres something outside. I can hear it. It wants to get in! Still Tolya bent under the table, now pushing his head and shoulders down and tipping himself off the bench to the floor. He lay alongside the dog. Its coming for us we must be brave we must shut our eyes, and cross our fingers. Thats the drill. The boys at school told me. Cousin told me. And we must ask Comrade Stalin
Tolyas head cracked the underside of the table as the door opened and cold air washed into the cottage. He cowered. Lev thumped his tail.
Tolya! A voice like a pistol shot. Come help me, son! Ive got a lot to carry. Come on now, pet, help Baba!
Lev heaved his tired bones from the floor and ambled towards the owner of the voice, tongue lolling as she cuffed his ear with a large, reddened hand.
Lev, you old rascal, what do you want with me, eh? And what have you done with my grandson?
Baba, Im here, Tolya scrambled out from under the table, pulling hair and dirt from his baggy grey trousers as he did so. His hands shook. We heard a scary sound. It was the moth boy, fluttering in the trees. He tapped on the window! I was I was petrified! The boy looked up from his trousers and a single tear escaped each of his bright green eyes as he blinked.
Babas hands stopped still on the dogs nose and she regarded the boy. You heard the moth boy, you say? And what did he sound like, eh? Like wind in the trees, or like me walking in the yard? She raised an eyebrow and waited for Tolya to reply, but the boy avoided her gaze, and instead fiddled with the buttons on his jerkin, running his fingers over their smooth surface again and again. Did Lev hear the moth boy?
Tolya shook his head. I dont think so, Baba.
Youve been scaring yourself instead of doing your jobs. Hiding under the table with the dog you should have been drawing water from the well, or clearing ash from the stove. Youre a rascal, young Tolya, and Papa will have to be told!
She put down her bag and handed him a solid brick of black bread. Food in our stomachs, son, thats what you need to worry about. The real the here! Youve scared yourself, and now no one will sleep.
But Ill sleep with you, Baba, and with Lev here, and Ill sleep well. No matter what the moth boy does.
Ha, maybe youll sleep well with some food inside you, well see. But you mustnt get between me and my sleep, Ive a lot to do tomorrow. Now, help me get the dinner ready. We wont wait for Papa, hes going to be late.
Hes got a quota, said Tolya in a serious, grown-up tone.
Hes got a quota, echoed Baba, nodding her head.
The pair washed their hands in the bucket by the stove and began preparations for the evening meal.
No sausage tonight, Baba? Tolya searched through her bag.
Ha! Sausage? No sausage tonight. Ive forgotten what it looks like. They say things will get better but but there, we will wait and see. I havent forgotten the taste!
Ah, the glorious taste!
Pure heaven, grinned Baba.
Like eating sunshine, said Tolya.
You know, we could always try making sausage out of Lev. What do you reckon? Babas worn cheeks glowed red as she chuckled.
Pure heaven, grinned Baba.
Like eating sunshine, said Tolya.
You know, we could always try making sausage out of Lev. What do you reckon? Babas worn cheeks glowed red as she chuckled.
Baba! Thats not funny!
No, she agreed wryly, after a short pause, its not. Youre my sunshine, boy. You are my joy. Dont ever change. She hugged him close, bread knife in hand, and breathed in the familiar, warm smell of his hair, his neck, his young life.
They set about their tasks, and swapped stories of the days events.
Did you draw me anything today, young Tolya, eh?
No, Baba. I need a new piece of chalk. That ones all worn away, I cant hold onto it.
Akh, again? Well, well see what I can do. Maybe up at the school house well be able to beg a piece of chalk. Well keep trying. I love your pictures. Youve got a gift there, son. Much good itll do you.
The well bucket clanked as the wind whipped out of the trees and across the yard. The boy dropped his spoon. So, Tolya, said Baba slowly, now youve told me about school, whats this talk of the moth boy? Wheres this coming from? Old stories, boy not good Communism. She observed him from the corner of her eye as she began to cut the black loaf into slices. Tolya stirred the buckwheat porridge with an inexpert hand.
We were talking after school, Baba. Pavlik has seen him. And Gosha. He came to their windows, in the night. He was tapping for the candles. And cousin Go
He should know better! Baba tutted, and shook her head.
Its true though! He said the moth boy wants to get into their houses, to get near the light, and lay eggs in their ears. Theyve all seen him! All of them! He waits at the windows! Maybe he wants to eat them! Suck out their brains
Enough! On with your jobs! Baba scowled over the bread. Those boys with their stories! Im going to have a word with that cousin of yours!
Tolya pretended to get on with his jobs, but his eyes strayed back to the window. In his head, he could really see moth boy: his moon-washed face, pale as the northern summer night, pale as milk, luminous as ice; his huge eyes, round, bulbous, staring from his shrunken skull like twin planets, empty and dead; his stomach, round and furry, grossly blown up and dissected into two pieces thorax and abdomen, both parts moving and throbbing; worst of all, his wings, fluttering, green and brown and blue, vibrating, shimmering, huge and furry: inhuman. He could see him flitting amongst the trees, shivering, diving, a puff of moth-dust from his vibrating wings, projecting himself, aching to cross from the trees into the village, from the dark to the light, fluttering over chimneys and into window frames, knocking on the panes, reaching out with limbs that were withered and ice-cold, frond-like were they wing-tips, or antennae?