I walked towards the gates and the Nissan roared off back the way we’d come. I hoped the failed rapists and robbers would have enough sense not to attempt any kind of revenge.
But then, in a couple of days’ time I wouldn’t be concerned about local petty bandits any more.
And so I arrived at the Artek camp, where I was supposed to restore my health, at two in the morning.
‘To sup light broth’ as Karl Lvovich had said as he signed the necessary forms.
Every exemplary Soviet young pioneer was supposed to do three things: visit Lenin in his mausoleum, go on holiday to Artek and tie some little Child of October’s tie. After that he could proceed to the next stage of his development – the Komsomol.
In the course of my brief childhood career as a young pioneer, I had only managed the first point. This was my chance to make up for one of the things I’d missed.
I don’t know how it was in Soviet times, but now the exemplary children’s camp had a serious look to it. The perimeter fence was in perfect shape, and there were guards at the entrance. I couldn’t actually see any weapons … not at first glance … but the tough young guys in militia uniform looked serious enough without them. There was a kid of about fourteen or fifteen there too, looking completely out of place beside these guardians of order. Was he perhaps a hangover from the old days, when the bugles were sounded and the drums beaten as the neat ranks of young pioneers walked to the beach for their water therapy following the strict camp schedule?
To be honest, I’d been expecting a lot of bureaucratic red tape. Or at least considerable surprise. But it seemed like it wasn’t the first time young pioneer leaders (although now my job had the simpler title of teacher) had arrived at Artek at two o’clock in the morning in a foreign car. One of the guards took a quick look at my papers – they were genuine, checked and approved at all the appropriate offices, certified with signatures and stamps – and then he called the kid over.
‘Makar, take Alisa to the duty camp leader.’
‘Uhuh,’ the kid mumbled, looking me over with interest. He was clearly a good kid, with no complexes. When he saw a beautiful young woman he wasn’t afraid to show he was interested. He’d go a long way …
After we left the guards’ hut, we walked past a long row of boards with lists of daily activities, announcements of various events and children’s wall newspapers … what a long time it was since I’d seen wall newspapers! Then we set off down a badly lit path, and I found myself trying to spot the traditional Soviet plaster statues of boy buglers and girls clutching oars along it, but there weren’t any.
‘Are you a new leader?’ the boy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Makar.’ He held out his hand in a dignified manner.
‘Alisa.’ I shook hands with him, barely managing to restrain a smile.
The difference between our ages was about ten years, or maybe twelve. But even the names showed how everything had changed in that time. Where were all the girls named after Lewis Carroll’s Alice now? They’d gone the way of the plaster buglers, the young pioneer banners, the lost illusions and the failed dreams. Marched off in tidy columns to the strains of a cheerful, rousing song … The little girl who had made every boy in the country fall in love with her when she played Alice in the old film was now quietly working as a biologist and merely smiled when she was reminded of her old romantic image.
There were other names now. Makar, Ivan, Egor, Masha … It was an immutable law of nature – the worse things become in a country, the more it’s trampled into the mud, the stronger the yearning for the old roots. For the old names, the old ways, the old rituals. But these Makars and Ivans were no worse. They were probably better, in fact. More serious, more singleminded, not shackled by any ideology or false show of unity. They were much closer to us Dark Ones than all those Alisas, Seryozhas and Slavas.
But I still felt a bit slighted somehow, maybe because we hadn’t been like that. Or maybe it was just because they were like that.
‘Are you just going to be temporary here?’ the boy asked, as serious as ever.
‘Yes. My friend’s ill, I’m going to replace her. But I’ll try to come back again next year.’
Makar nodded.
‘Do, this is a good place here. I’m going to come next year too. I’ll be fifteen then.’
Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw a brief sparkle in the little imp’s eyes.
‘And after you’re fifteen?’
He shook his head and replied with obvious regret.
‘You can only come until you’re sixteen. But anyway, at sixteen I’m going to go to Cambridge to study.’
I almost choked in surprise.
‘That’s pretty expensive, Makar.’
‘I know. It was all planned five years ago, don’t worry.’
He had to be the son of one of those New Russians. They had everything planned in advance.
‘Well, that’s certainly thorough. Are you going to stay there?’
‘No, what for? I’ll get a decent education and come back to Russia.’
A very serious child. No doubt about it, these human beings sometimes threw up amusing types. It was a pity I couldn’t test him for Other abilities right now … we could use kids like that.
I followed my guide as he turned off the pathway with its square flagstones onto a narrow track.
‘This is a shortcut,’ the boy explained. ‘Don’t worry, I know my way around here …’
I followed him in silence – it was pretty dark, and I was relying on just my human abilities, but his white shirt was easy to follow.
‘There, you see that light?’ Makar asked, turning back to look at me. ‘You go straight towards that, I’m off now …’
It seemed like the boy just wanted to play a trick on me … it was three hundred metres to the Light through the dense growth of the park. He would have been able to boast to his friends about how he led the new teacher into the bushes and left her there.
But Makar had no sooner taken a step off to the side than he caught his foot on something and fell with a cry of surprise. I didn’t even feel like gloating – it was so funny.
‘Didn’t you say you knew your way around here?’ I couldn’t resist asking.
He didn’t even answer, just breathed heavily through his nose as he rubbed his bruised and bleeding knee. I squatted down beside him and looked into his eyes:
‘You wanted to play a trick on me, didn’t you?’
The kid glanced at me and quickly turned his eyes away. He muttered:
‘I’m sorry …’
‘Do you play tricks like that on everyone?’ I asked.
‘No …’
‘So why was I accorded such an honour?’
It was a moment before he answered.
‘You looked like … you were very sure of yourself…’
‘I should think so,’ I agreed simply. ‘I had some adventures on my way here. I was almost killed on the way, word of honour! But I got through it. So how am I supposed to look?’
‘I’m sorry.’
All his seriousness and self-assurance had completely deserted him. As I squatted beside him I said:
‘Show me your knee.’
He took his hand away.
Power. I know what it is. I could almost feel it, the power pouring out of the boy: generated by the pain, the resentment, the shame – it was pure power … I could almost take it – like any Dark Other, whose strength is people’s weakness.
Almost.
But it wasn’t what I actually needed. Makar sat there gritting his teeth and not making a sound. He wouldn’t give way, and he held the power inside himself. It was too much for me right now.