But she had swung it, against him. A clever as well as a tough bitch. With Khodyan’s suspected murmur she had effectively stopped him from leaving her district. She wanted to keep an eye on him. And tomorrow she would have ample opportunity. With Chukchees to confirm her suspicions.
What then? Should he get out of it? And afterwards be stuck here, a week off work, not knowing what she was doing? No, not that. But was it any better staying close to her?
He couldn’t think.
‘Pussy cat, where have you been?’ Lydia Yakovlevna was huddled in the doorway. ‘I haven’t seen you for days!’
In the same confusion of mind, he had driven back, parked the car, walked into the building, quite unaware of any of it. He looked at her.
‘I’ve been to Bilibino,’ he said.
To Bilibino! Oh, what a lot of money. But poor lamb, you’ll be tired. Come in, have a drink and we’ll do things. Tonight I’ll really relax you.’
And that night she almost wore him out. But relax him she did, and as the big girl worked away he knew what he would do. He would keep to the plan. He would go with Komarova the next day; but if anything untoward happened, she would not see another.
31
The broad Kolyma, shining white; a blinding white. At eleven-thirty the day had not long dawned but already they needed their snow glasses. She was in her cap and parka, and she handled the bobik efficiently — a white one striped with red which he recalled having seen at the road station.
‘You drive everywhere yourself?’ he said. This he said for something to say; she had said almost nothing, buzzing quite fast on the river.
‘I fly if I have to. It means arrangements. Driving is easier.’
‘Yes. On a fine day.’
Today was very fine, the sky clear, faintly blue. Smoke stood straight in the air from occasional houses on the bank; from the opposite bank also, three or four miles away across the white expanse, the air crystal clear. This was no good. It was the way to Anyuysk, and he knew it. No good.
‘But not in bad weather,’ he said, ‘or for long distances. The road station we met at — a long distance.’
‘Yes. The limit of my district.’
‘You treat people there?’
‘Settlements. They send a tractor over for me.’
‘And take them food also?’ She had picked up a couple of crates at Green Cape, evidently from store; fruit and vegetables, canned goods.
‘No.’
She had seen him glance behind at the stuff, but made no other comment.
All right, tough baby. No questions from her about Chukotka, or even his driving experiences, which would have been normal. Well, he could wait too. Until tomorrow, at any rate. He needed information from her first, to find out how far the thing had gone. He had decided to dispose of her anyway. The matter of Murmansk would always remain in the air. All he needed was a place for the accident.
‘It’s up a creek, this settlement?’ he said.
‘A small river. Panarovka.’
‘That’s the name of the river?’
‘Of the village. The river is the Little Ghost.’
‘A strange name. Why Little Ghost?’
‘A camp used to be there — an old one, from Tsarist times. It was used since, of course. Many people died there. Their ghosts remain.’
‘You believe that?’ he said incredulously.
She smiled.
‘The Chukchees believe it.’ And now she became suddenly talkative. ‘You’ll know a good many of the old beliefs, I expect?’
‘Well, some. A broken childhood,’ he said cautiously. ‘And my father a teacher — he didn’t believe.’
‘These are old-fashioned people here. They believe. They’ve been here for generations. And they know many things. Maybe they even know you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said regretfully. ‘I never was here.’
‘But they go there — to Chukotka. They fly out, they keep up their contacts.’
‘They do?’
‘Oh, yes. Regularly. They know everything that goes on there — a wonderful knowledge of family networks. It’s good to keep such things alive. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, it’s good. It’s nice,’ he said.
‘They’ll certainly know of your family — parents, aunts, cousins. You will have a lot in common. It will be interesting even apart from the language.’
‘Yes, interesting,’ he said.
‘I thought so. I have a good relationship with them. They tell me everything. Now here,’ she said, ‘we’re just coming to the Little Ghost. Over there, the opposite bank, is Novokolymsk, a few kilometres farther, you can’t see it from here. It isn’t far in a bobik. They are more up to date at the collective. As a modern person perhaps you’ll have more in common. If you want to visit, I can arrange it for you.’
‘Yes. I’d like it,’ he said. ‘Maybe while I’m off work I can run an errand for you there?’
‘Maybe. I’ll try and think of something.’
‘You could write me a letter here. I could take it later.’
She smiled behind her snow glasses. ‘You prefer more up-to-date people,’ she said.
‘Well. While I have nothing else to do — I could meet them.’
‘All right, I’ll write a few lines. Remind me.’
‘I will. Good,’ he said. And everything now was good. The little Ghost river was good. The bank of the Kolyma had fallen away and they were in the tributary. A wonderful little tributary, like the one to Provodnoye; winding, sharp bends. The banks were not so high, and not so vertical; but high enough and vertical enough. And quite narrow, no more than four metres, in places only three. Yes, easily done here.
He sized it up carefully as she wound around the bends, but in twenty minutes — rather too soon — Panarovka came into view. The river widened suddenly into a small curving bay and the bank fell to form a beach. The village was set back on a snow-covered slope, perhaps 300 metres away; at first glance a huddle of small blobs with a taller one behind. A track had been made, climbing from the river, and she turned up it.
Closer to, the small blobs became recognisable as three rows of houses. The taller one was no less recognisable.
‘A church,’ she said, as he peered. ‘The place is old.’
‘Do they use it any more?’
‘Yes, they use it.’
Both the church and the houses were of wood, the houses detached and with a fence of palings round each. Smoke came from the houses but no one was about, and she drove along the upper row and parked outside the last house on the corner.
‘Your clinic?’ he said.
‘Yes. Bring the other crate.’ She had got one out of the back and was walking up the stamped snow path.
So that was it. The bearer of gifts used one of the Chukchee houses as her clinic. She could have explained, if she’d wanted. What she wanted was evidently to confront him right away with some Chukchees. Okay; he braced himself.
A Chukchee woman, elderly and shapeless, opened the door as they reached it. ‘I heard the car,’ she said in Russian.
‘Yes. I’m sorry I’m late. There’s fruit here, Viktoria.’ To his surprise she kissed the Chukchee. ‘And some tinned stuff. Bring it in,’ she said to Kolya.
The woman barely glanced at him as she took the crate of fruit and looked into it, and he followed with the other crate through a little hall, curtained to keep out the draughts, into a large room. It was very warm, a big porcelain stove set against the far wall. The walls were of wood and the room dark, the windows small. Another woman was sitting in a big armchair, knitting, and Komarova bent and kissed her too.