He didnt even hear the phone ringing, trilling on and on as the thunder crashed. Ringing with persistence. Ringing to be heard. Ringing as if somebody was desperate: desperate he should know they were there.
A Shiver in the Trees
The steaming tea was placed at his elbow just as before, but this time Vlad had brought a small parcel tucked under his arm. The old mans teeth chattered with anticipation as he pulled away the brown paper. Within, there lay a nest of honey-brown buns, fragrant with ginger and cloves. They shone in the cold glow of the strip-light.
Pryaniki! Anatoly Borisovich clapped his hands. How I love pryaniki! So very kind of you, Vlad! May I? Without waiting he took a bun from the top of the pile and stuffed it into his mouth, lips stretching around the splitting shards of icing. His eyes closed in rapture.
My landlady makes them, said Vlad, unable to look away, revolted and fascinated by the bun-induced ecstasy as pastry crumbs writhed in the old mans mouth. She bakes every night, for no one. I dont eat them. He patted a hand on his lean stomach and smiled, shrugging. So theyre always going spare. Vlad was determined to be business-like this time. They would get to the salient points quickly: this was research, with a purpose; he was a professional, and he needed only facts.
She takes good care of you? the old man grunted, this landlady?
Facts, facts, facts. Dont get distracted, thought Vlad. She washes and irons very well, he said. And there is always good food. Shes lovely, really, but I dont get much privacy. I cant have my girlfriend round, for example. Anyway
And your family?
Family?
Anatoly Borisovichs eyes slid from the second bun, which he was now pushing into his mouth, to Vlads grey eyes. Family, he repeated with difficulty.
Oh. Vlad shrugged. In the country, forty kilometres or so from here. Mother, sister: I see them on holidays. Were not close. Theyre not like me.
No?
Vlad perched on the visitors chair, heels bouncing against the worn lino of the floor, impatient to start. He ran an eye over his subject. He looked better today: there was less puffiness about his face, his eyes twinkled and the knobbled toes that poked from beneath the bedclothes were pink. It was a turn-around. Maybe having someone to talk to was doing him good? You could never tell with the elderly: that was one reason Vlad found them increasingly fascinating. He hadnt imagined he would find gerontology interesting: his focus at the start of medical school had been purely the physical the body, how it worked, how to make it stronger, how it collapsed. But the more he studied, and the more patients he met, the more absorbing he found their thoughts, their backgrounds, the sum of their lives. He hadnt quite got the gist of how it all worked yet, but he was fascinated by the idea that he could influence those thoughts, to promote a change, and achieve a goal, through stimulation. Facts, facts, facts, thought Vlad, fiddling with his pen.
Theyre farmers. They live on a collective, in the middle of nowhere. Weve been apart a long time.
Hows that?
He definitely had a good appetite: a third bun was now disappearing within his cheeks.
I went to residential school: sport and science. Up in Rostov. I havent lived at the farm for ten years or more. Ive been lucky.
Sent away to school? How fascinating! And now youre going to be a doctor, because you must help your fellow citizens!
Well, I suppose I was going to go for physics, but the girls in the medicine queue were much prettier.
Anatoly Borisovich smiled as he chewed, and nodded. Surely the boy was joking?
But enough about me, said Vlad, were here to talk about you.
The old man was eyeing a fourth iced bun when a loud, low howl resounded in his belly. A steady diet of soft brown boiled things had left his digestion ill-prepared for food that was rich or easily identifiable.
Drink your tea, Anatoly Borisovich, directed Vlad with a smile as the old man clutched at his side and winced. It will help them go down. There is no need to hurry. The pryaniki have no legs, they will not run away.
That is good advice, thank you. Are you sure you wont have one?
No.
No sweet things for athletes, eh?
Im no longer an athlete.
Why not?
Injury.
Ah, a pity! Anatoly Borisovich tried a different tack. If oral delights dont interest you, what does?
A steady green stare captured Vlads eyes and all other details of the old mans face, including the smear of crumbs and the lattice of scars, melted away.
Vlad coughed. Well, you know: sport, cars, girls. Money.
That all sounds very And how old are you, if you dont mind so bold a question?
Twenty-two.
Youre not married?
Married? Vlads curls shivered as he laughed through his nose. No. Like I said, I have a girl, shes really I really Her name is Polly. Shes beautiful. And she loves me. But marriage is not a priority.
So what is, tell me?
Well, you know: a car, an apartment, textbooks, travel. And I want to buy shares, get into investment, but I lack capital
How romantic. And the arts, Vlad?
The arts?
What makes your heart soar? What makes you shiver with delight? What fills you with angels breath? A painting, a piece of music, a modern ballet perhaps, youre an athlete, after all
Vlad thought for a moment. BMW.
BM-what?
He snorted with a smile. Its a make of car. Big engines, broad. His hands shaped the car in the air. Leather seats; German engineering.
German? I see. Anatoly Borisovich nodded and turned his gaze to the lone pine on the horizon. Drawing is my particular love. I find it deeply calming. I can lose myself for days I spent my life in illustration. They gave me a beautiful watch when I retired a Poljot, the Soviet Unions best. I believe its in here. He turned to open the drawer of the bedside cabinet but it jarred, the cabinet rocking on its feet as he tugged.
Dont worry, Anatoly Borisovich, show me another time. We really should
I keep asking them for crayons and paper, Vlad. I know it would do me good. You know it would do me good. But they shrug and tell me maybe tomorrow I need to get my thoughts straight. I am hoping to be discharged, you see, before the frosts set in. I might go south the Caucasus, maybe, or further. Somewhere warm Angola
Angola? Vlad stifled a laugh and glanced at his watch. Thats as maybe. But Matron wont refer you to the doctors for sign-out until shes had consistently good reports, will she? Like at school, you remember? And at the moment your reports are not consistently good. So, thats what we must work towards.
Oh yes, I remember our little school. Thats lovely to remember! I received a rosette. Baba pinned it to the wall. She was very proud. And so was I. It was for drawing.
Good. So, perhaps if you are ready You were telling me on Tuesday, back in Siberia, you lived with your baba, that is, your grandmother? Vlad referred to his notes lying in scratchy blue lines across the notepad and read as the old man began humming.
You were telling me about the thing that made you afraid. The boys at school told you to close your eyes and cross your fingers if you heard the moth boy at the window? Remember?
Baba? the old man burped quietly. Oh, I know what happened to Baba! I remember! It wasnt my fault! It wasnt me! Dont blame me! His voice rose to a shriek and the feet under the covers began to kick.
Im not! My dear Anatoly Borisovich, dont get agitated! Im sorry. I was just trying to move us along. Ill say no more. Just let the words flow. As you want to tell it.
The old man slurped from his cup, but said nothing.
Your grandmother told you that shed seen something, or dreamt something she talked of the shaman, and a boy going out into the forest
The moth boy and the moon! Anatoly Borisovich leant forward, coughing with the effort and scattering pryaniki crumbs over the bed. He wagged a short, fat finger in Vlads face, so close it grazed his nose. It wasnt just talk, it wasnt a story. There was a creature in the woods.
Did you see it? What did it look like? The joints of the chair cracked like frosted wire as Vlad leant forward, and his pen wobbled the words imagination, or hallucination childhood psychosis? on his notepad. He forgot about drilling for facts. Go ahead! Talk!
Tolyas favourite chore was sweeping the yard. Baba stood at the doorway watching him as he stumbled around, twig broom in hand, running after the blackened, soggy leaves, chuckling to himself as the wind threw them in the air around his head. He tried to catch them, as if they were butterflies and the broom a net, scattering gravel and laughter as he went. Lev followed at a slower pace, flicking his tail this way and that and occasionally mouthing a low woof. Baba clucked her tongue and left them to it.
The leaves danced around Tolyas head and he dropped the broom, arms outstretched, pink fingers curling into the air, feeling the swell of the breeze pushing out of the pine forest across his corner of the earth. The world felt mysterious. How many thousands of kilometres had the wind come, and where was it going? What was it carrying, this rush of air: whose voices, animal or human? What smells were being swept around the pine trunks, over the streams and rocks, across the bed of brown needles and stumpy cones that covered the forest floor? Lev raised his head and sniffed the air, blind to all but the visions brought to him by his black, wet nose. Tolya did the same.
What is it, boy? A bear? A wolf? A wood spirit? Tolya crowned the dog with a handful of mashed leaves. You and me, we are hunters. He imagined jumping over the fence into the trees, leaping from the branches onto that fragrant carpet of needles and tumbling into the wooded gloom, deeper into the forest, where the only sound was you and the crunch of twigs beneath your feet. He would hunt down the smells, the voices, the history. He would hunt down the shaman. He would track him to his hut hidden in the gloom and tell him about Stalin. No need for magic now, comrade shaman. We, you and me, we are Communism! We have the new magic, in Stalins word. It will cure our ills, and keep us safe. Your forest belongs to us all now. Tolya gripped the top of the gate and stared out into the trees, looking for movement.