‘Tanya!’ the woman said. She was a little bag of bones with a shawl; a walking stick leaned against the chair. ‘We expected you yesterday.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. Wait — she’ll come and take it from you,’ she said to him. ‘Mother, I’ve brought a visitor — Nikolai Dmitrievich Khodyan. He’s from Chukotka. Alexandra Ivanovna,’ she introduced her mother. ‘He can’t shake hands with you now, he’s holding a crate.’ But the Chukchee woman returned just then and took the crate, glancing at him as she did so.
‘Nikolai Dmitrievich?’ the old lady said, holding out her hand.
‘Kolya,’ he said, shaking the hand.
‘You are visiting us from Chukotka?’
‘Bend down, she can’t see you,’ Komarova ordered.
He bent and the old lady felt his face, and his head. ‘Ah, an old person?’
‘Not as young as I should be, but not that old.’
‘His hair fell out. He’s my age,’ Komarova said.
Was he now? Khodyan was thirty-six.
‘Khodyan?’ the Chukchee woman said, returning to the room. ‘One of the Khodyans from Anadyr?’
‘Yes, I am. You are Viktoria —’
‘Eremevina.’ The Chukchee woman shook his hand. ‘And if I am not mistaken — did you say Nikolai Dmitrievich?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘The son of the schoolteacher?’
‘That’s me.’ They were talking now in Chukchee.
‘Then I was present at your birth! Heaven save us all!’ She gave him a resounding kiss on the lips. ‘But your family moved to Novosibirsk! And your elder sister, the one who was so ill — what was her name?’
‘She died,’ Kolya said promptly. ‘It hurts me to talk of it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
‘What are they babbling at? Why babble?’ the old lady said. ‘I am also here.’
‘Viktoria is telling him she was present at his birth. His father was a schoolteacher in Anadyr. He had a sister who died.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it. But they can speak a Christian language. While I am still here! Nobody has come to talk to me for half a year!’
‘I was here six weeks ago,’ Komarova said coldly. ‘And this is a busy time. Is my consulting room ready?’ she asked the Chukchee.
‘Of course. And ten people were sitting here waiting yesterday!’
‘Well, tell them I’m here now. And prepare a room for Nikolai Dmitrievich, he will be staying the night. I expect you’ll find something to talk about,’ she told him.
She was looking at him curiously, and he returned the look.
She had understood every word of the Chukchee. Well, what of it? His story had held up — indeed had been miraculously confirmed. If Khodyan did not have too many other siblings to dispose of, he could hold his own. She would question this Viktoria, he had no doubt of it, and the other Chukchees; ten patients … A very comprehensive checking out of him. A thorough bitch, and cold; brusque with her mother, and this old retainer. All of a piece, at any rate. He could handle her as long as he had to. Not so long now.
He brought in their two bags, and was shown to his room; all wood, dark, smelling of camphor.
She had gone to her consulting room when he returned and he sat and took a glass of tea with the old lady. But presently as patients arrived and, after introductions, began talking loudly to him in Chukchee, the old woman struggled wrathfully to her feet, and was helped by Viktoria to her room.
But so far, so good. His story was sound, reasonable. A schoolmaster a little above himself had taken his family to a big town, and preferred it there. The daughter had died and the boy, detached from his background — even speaking his own tongue with an accent! — had gone on the loose. But he had hankered for the far north, had healthy instincts himself, a good young fellow.
He heard Khodyan’s antecedents discussed, flashed his smile of rueful ignorance, listened to their own stories, told of his driving experiences, of the money to be made. A levelheaded young fellow, as well as charming.
So many invitations came his way that he was able to skip the late lunch at the house and take it elsewhere: a snack here, a drink there, mainly among women and old men; and he learned the reason for this.
In summer the villagers fished and farmed. Because the river had no bank here, when the ice broke the first flood came up and washed the top metre of ground almost all the way to the village. In the good soil they grew everything — potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, beans — flowers even. Yes, in the gardens, sunflowers, this high!
But in winter the men went to the traplines, came home maybe only once in ten days. They sold the pelts through the collective at Novokolymsk. All sorts were there, Yakuts, Evenks, Yukagir, Chukchees — yes, Chukchees too. Not quite our sort, but decent people. If he was interested someone would always take him there, easily arranged.
He began to see he wouldn’t need Komarova for this. But he needed her for something else, of course, and he took dinner at the house. An endless meal, in which the daughter’s impatience with her mother grew.
The old lady talked. And talked. The villagers had told him, no doubt, of her late husband, Dr Komarov? An angel to them. When he had come out of the camp he had been eagerly awaited in Leningrad, where his reputation stood so high. But no, he had set up his surgery here. An angel. They kissed his feet. Wouldn’t leave them, had selflessly ministered to all here. And now lay in his final place here. Which she would never leave, no never. Had he seen the graveyard?
No, he had not yet had that opportunity; he would like the opportunity.
Just beyond the church, on the high ground. Was he a churchgoer?
Sometimes he was a churchgoer; in his job it was not always easy. And there were not that many churches!
Well, tomorrow he could go to church, Sunday. They would all go to church. This one had a beautiful, a holy history —’
‘We will go out now,’ Komarova said.
‘Out? Out where?’ her mother said.
‘To the graveyard. He wants to see it.’
‘Tatiana, are you mad? It will be pitch dark.’
‘There’s a moon.’
‘If you can see it, it will be freezing hard. He’ll see it in the morning, of course. We’ll all go.’
‘There might be no time in the morning.’
‘No time — what are you thinking of? I’ve arranged flowers for you to lay there!’
‘And tell Viktoria we’ll need fresh tea. We’ll have it when we return. It won’t be long.’
‘But you’ll freeze! It’s iron hard out there. Put everything on that you have!’
They put everything on, but he still gasped as they stepped outside. The cold was so intense it seemed to burn the backs of his eyeballs. The night was dead still, glaring white. Below her cap Komarova had wrapped her head and mouth in a woollen scarf; he held gloved hands to his mouth and smelt the leather.
They mounted the path to the church. It stood squat in the moonlight, its wooden steeple sheathed in ice. Beyond, the graveyard was set out like a camp on the white slope, neat rows of small knobs, the tops of iced crosses. They crunched between the rows. On the mounds wisps of dried flowers poked through the snow like bits of tinsel. She paused between a couple of mounds and bent to brush the snow off one, peering.
‘Your father?’
‘Piotr Petrovich … Yes. More flowers here. Five bunches. Remember that, she’ll ask.’
Her mouth was muffled through the scarf, but her eyes when she straightened up were looking at him very levelly.