‘The Krokodil is one of the Maksim Gorky Agitprop Squadron,’ Mikhail informed her, ‘designed to fly from town to town across Russia. It distributes pamphlets and gives film shows to demonstrate what great strides Communism is making. It shows off Stalin’s grandest projects, like the building of the White Sea Canal.’
‘You’ve already told me all that. Tell me something new.’
‘Have I mentioned that it was named after the Krokodil magazine and differs from other ANT-9s by having aerodynamic fairings over the wheels and struts?’
‘Interesting. But what about its engines?’
‘Well, it has two M-17 engines instead of the original three Gnome et Rhône Titans which gave it…’ He dragged his gaze away from the plane, looked at her and grinned. She loved his grin. ‘You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what else shall I tell you? How Stalin intends that Russia will soon outstrip the West or…’ his mouth twitched with mischief, ‘that you have the most beautiful eyes on earth and that I want to kiss your lips?’
‘Hmm, let me think. That’s a hard one to choose.’
She stepped closer, leaning in towards him. At that moment the guttural growl of the twin engines roared across the field.
‘Look!’ He pointed over the heads of the crowd. ‘Look at its teeth!’
Sofia would rather look at Mikhail’s strong white teeth with their small telltale chip, but she wasn’t going to argue. The plane dropped down on to the grass where, as it rolled and bounced to a stop, the crowd broke into cheers, the Young Pioneers saluted and the brass band struck up the Internationale.
‘It’s smiling,’ Sofia laughed in astonishment.
Painted on the long reptilian plywood nose that designer Vadim Shavrov had specially added were the jaws and sharp teeth of a crocodile, curved into a disarming smile. Down the spine of the fuselage a row of bumps rose like the scaly ridges of a crocodile’s back.
‘It’s inspired,’ Mikhail exclaimed. ‘The most famous aeroplane in the country.’
‘It makes me proud to be Russian,’ Sofia said solemnly.
‘You’re teasing me again.’
‘No, Mikhail. I mean it. I am proud of Russia and I am proud of being Russian.’
He gave her a wide smile. ‘Then let’s go and inspect the Krokodil.’
He took her hand in his, led her across the field through the milling throng with a long energetic stride, but the look in his eyes was so serious and so determined, it didn’t match the smile on his lips. It made her uneasy.
‘Sofia, have you seen Yuri?’ Mikhail asked.
The afternoon was measured by how many times the propellers swung into action. They were watching the Krokodil take off once more. A collective intake of breath from the crowd whispered on the hot summer breeze as the aircraft shook off its lumbering attachment to the ground. It soared up into the air and at once, in its natural element, it possessed all the grace of a dancer. It dipped one wing and banked smoothly into a circle above the field, climbing higher and higher with each circuit.
‘Yes, I saw him in the film projection tent earlier.’
‘Not since?’
‘No. The races are about to start, so he’s probably over there by the flags.’
Mikhail’s gaze scanned the sea of faces on the field. ‘I can’t see him.’
Sofia rested a hand lightly on his forearm. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled well back because of the heat of the day and she could feel that the muscle underneath was tense.
‘What is it, Mikhail? What’s the matter?’
‘Pyotr came to see me.’ He released a harsh breath. ‘He said things about you to Yuri that he shouldn’t have said, and he’s frightened that Yuri will go to Stirkhov with it.’
Despite the warmth of the sun, Sofia’s face froze.
The voices and the laughter all around them, the band’s incessant drumming and the throb of the heavy M-17 engines, all faded to nothing. Silence seemed to fill the whole wide arc of sky.
Mikhail stared at her, grim-faced. ‘It’s time to leave.’
‘Zenia, wait a minute.’
The gypsy girl was emerging from a tent. Each tent contained a different machine or process on display to indicate the modernisation of industry, but the most popular by far was the one full of the latest shiny sewing machines. Every woman in the field coveted one. Sofia caught the gypsy girl’s arm and drew her aside behind a heavy Gaz truck that had transported the benches and chairs. It smelled of oil and warm paintwork.
‘What is it, Sofia? You look… unhappy.’
‘I saw you with your friend Vanya earlier. He isn’t in OGPU uniform today.’
‘No, he’s off duty.’ Zenia couldn’t stop herself smiling as she talked of him.
‘But he’d hear what’s going on, wouldn’t he? He’d know if there’s any trouble today.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘A search for someone.’
Zenia’s features became still and she studied Sofia hard. ‘Wait here and stay behind the truck. I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Don’t move.’ She hurried away.
Sofia didn’t move.
She remained behind the truck and knew this was the end. The end of everything. The choice was already made.
The hot breeze that blew through the silver birches bordering the meadow sounded as sad as the wind that sighed over the empty flats of the taiga, and all around her the air was delicate and clear as glass. She could taste its sparkle on her tongue in a way she never had before because now she was losing it.
It was a straight choice.
And at that moment she hated Anna with a hatred that took her breath away.
‘Bistro! ’ Zenia was back. ‘We must swap clothes.’
She was already untying the red scarf from her neck and yanking off her skirt to reveal thin, childish legs. Sofia didn’t ask why. It was obvious they were searching for her and had her description.
‘Spasibo, Zenia,’ she said as she stepped into Zenia’s black skirt. It had felt flowers in bright colours round the hem. She buttoned up the white gypsy blouse. But the words thank you were nowhere near enough.
‘I asked Vanya. You are to be arrested as an escaped fugitive the moment they find you.’
Sofia tied Zenia’s triangular scarf over her head to disguise her blonde hair and knotted it at the back, while Zenia pulled on the cornflower dress. Then Sofia drew from the small pouch she wore at her waist three objects. They lay on her outstretched palm, their perfection at odds with her scarred fingers.
‘Zenia, I’m leaving but I would like you to have one of these. Take whichever you wish.’
One was the round white pebble Rafik had given her. The second was a wolf ’s long curved tooth from her time in the forest. It hung on a rawhide cord. The third was a diamond ring, so big and so bright it looked like it had swallowed the sun. The gypsy girl took a long time deciding, her black eyelashes darting shadows on her cheeks. Her hand hovered over Sofia’s. She eventually lifted up the amulet of the wolf ’s canine tooth, which she tied round her neck by the cord. Neither commented on the gift or the choice.
‘There is a packet for you in my skirt pocket,’ Zenia said. ‘From Rafik.’
Sofia rummaged in the black skirt’s patch pocket and found a small twist of brown paper that contained a handful of strong-smelling herbs.
‘What is it?’
‘A painkiller,’ Zenia said and looked away.
A painkiller? What did Rafik know that she didn’t?
‘Thank you, Zenia.’
‘Take care.’
Sofia’s hand closed tightly over the pebble and the ring. She would need much more than care.