I walked on. Ten minutes later, a road crossed the one I was on: the "first" canal road, I assumed. A truck had turned off it, giving me fresh tracks to follow, and now I moved faster. By one-thirty I reached the second road, and then minutes after that I arrived at Shastov's house.
I stood there, panting, very hot under my coat. Through a thin screen of birches and pines, I could see a cabin of squared logs, chinked with cement. A footpath, partially obliterated by the snow, led up to it, and a crib of split logs reached to the edge of its steep, slanting roof. This was an izba: if Yuri Shas-tov lived here today, he was following a pattern of life Russians have known for centuries.
I looked across the bare, frozen landscape. It seemed incredible that I should be here, and as my frosted breath prickled on my unshaved stubble, I wondered again if this wasn't some bizarre trick on Brightman's part — perhaps he'd pulled Yuri Shastov's name out of a hat, sending his fortune off into the blue and returning it, at random, from whence it had come… But that possibility didn't bear thinking about, so I felt through my pockets for a Kleenex, blew my nose, and headed up the path. It lay, like a shadow, beneath the recent snow, ascending a gentle slope through the birch trees. No one— Subotin, for example — had passed here in hours, and snow had drifted in an even line against the door. I knocked. And at once, as if he'd been waiting for me, a voice softly called, "Come in, come in."
There was no lock or door handle; just an iron latch which I lifted and pushed, releasing a little avalanche of snow before me.
Stepping ahead, I found myself in a darkened, smoky room. it was more like the inside of a shed, or a small farm building, than a house. The log walls were blackened with soot, the plank floor was strewn with straw, and a fire smoldered on an open hearth. Two black electric wires dangled down from the roof, but it still wasn't six, so the only light came from the fire and two kerosene lanterns; these were sitting on a stool which, in turn, was drawn up beside a wing chair of enormous proportions: curved legs that ended in eagle's claws gripping brass balls; "wings" like a nun's cowl; a seat as large as a bed. In such a place, a chair like that was an incredible sight; but even odder was the fact that it somehow "belonged." In fact, it was the natural center of the room. Ancient, very worn, it was covered in a faded paisley brocade, but this still had a sheen, as if it had been lovingly polished for years. Reflected by that brocade, the flickering flames of the fire took on a misty, coppery gleam and the light from the lamps spread through the shadows with a silky glow, transforming everything it touched; indeed, whatever that light touched — a simple jug on the table; the color photo, cut from a newspaper, that hung on the wall — was set apart from its surroundings and drawn back again to the chair itself. The chair was like a jewel box, with a diamond nestled inside. And, appropriate to this, the chair's contents were enclosed in layer upon layer of blankets and rugs, the whole being covered with a sheet as white as tissue paper. The diamond, however, took the form of a little old man. Very wizened, he had bright dark eyes and a flowing mustache — and those eyes were the real points of light in the room. He was reading and, clearly expecting somebody else at my knock, had gone back to his book. When he finally noticed me, he stared for a second before letting the book settle gently into his lap. Then he said, "Who are you?"
"Are you Yuri Shastov?"
"Naturally. And I ask you again: who are you?" This was a crucial moment, though I didn't know it 'at the time. How was I going to account for myself? I'd been so concerned about getting here that I hadn't considered the question. Now my consternation was obviously genuine — and therefore convincing. Finally, with those eyes staring into my face, I just told the truth. "My name is Robert Thorne, Mr. Shastov. I'm an American."
He took this in. "An American?"
"Yes."
A log cracked on the hearth. A spark spat onto the floor. I looked around. Accustomed now to the gloom, my eyes made out a length of black stovepipe, suspended from the roof, over the fire. A curl of smoke rose toward it, but most of this eddied back into the room.
Glancing down, and frowning, Shastov closed the book on his finger. "I apologize, but I must ask you to confirm what you've said. You are an American?"
"Yes."
"That is hard to believe."
"I've come a very long way to see you, Mr. Shastov. I just hope you'll understand… this isn't going to be easy to explain."
As I looked at his face, it was clear he didn't believe me. I could hardly blame him. It was almost certain that I was the only American — perhaps the only foreigner — he had ever seen; and, for all I knew, no American had been in Povonets in this century. Or ever. After a moment, he glanced away — but then, as if afraid to take his eyes off me, glanced quickly back. "You say you are… from the United States of America?"
"Yes. That's right."
He nodded; then his mouth went very firm. Hitching himself up a bit in the chair, he said, "All right, then, tell me this. What is the capital of the American state South Dakota?"
Now it was my turn to gawk — not only because of the question he'd asked but because he'd asked it in passable English. I hesitated; with those eyes staring at me, I felt very much as if I was in the third grade. And I couldn't have done very well in the third grade. I shook my head. "I have no idea."
"No? Guess…"
"I couldn't. I don't know."
"That surprises me, since you are an American. The answer is Pierre. The state capital of South Dakota is Pierre."
"Really? And what is the capital of North Dakota?"
Those eyes flashed even brighter. "Bismarck. I don't know, but I suppose a lot of Germans must live there. Bismarck… am I right?"
I smiled. "Honestly, Mr. Shastov, I don't know that one either. But I am an American."
He shook his head. "Your English is very good for a Chek-ist, but your Russian is much too good for any foreigner, let alone an American. I don't understand, however. Why did you come here? Why are you playing with me? If you have something to ask, why not just ask?"
"I'm not a Chekist, Mr. Shastov. Believe me."
A moment passed. He looked at me, straight on, without fear. And I think he was going to say something — some equivalent of "Go to hell" — and I didn't want that, I didn't want him painted into a corner, and so I said, "Your English is excellent. May I ask where you learned how to speak it?"
He eyed me. "Perm," he said. "In a school."
"Are you from Perm?"
"A long time ago. It's all in my papers. You have the authority to look at them… as you well know."
"No, Mr. Shastov. I assure you — I have no authority at all."
He shrugged; and now, if he didn't believe me, I could sense that he was at least confused. "In any case, I have been a resident of Povonets for many years. By order of the state, you understand. I was deported here to work on the canal."
"Why… were you deported?"
A little smile flickered over his lips. But maybe my foolishness helped, for he said, "Perhaps you are a foreigner. Who knows why they are deported? Maybe they needed deportees here, and so I was sent. Or perhaps, deportees being available, they decided to use them on the canal."
I hesitated. I couldn't tell whether he was angry or amused. "You worked on the canal?"
He laughed softly. "No, no. If I worked on the canal, my bones would be out there someplace. I was deported here later. They called me a kulak, you understand. In my case, this meant that I was teaching in a little village not far from Perm. But I could read and write, so the Bolsheviks decided I must be a threat and Stalin sent me and my wife to this place. I was to help run it. The locks, maintenance, keeping records as hundreds of ships began sailing through… not that they did. But we were ready. No one can ever deny it. I have been here ever since. I even stayed when the Germans were here."