Nine Layers of Sky Page 14

  Smoke spiraled up, sending Ilya into a coughing fit. He seemed unable to stop: doubled over, racked for breath. It was another unwelcome reminder of tuberculosis. Even if it wasn’t TB, he had still spent hours in the cold and the wet and there could be no doctor in reach, even if he was willing to take the risk of discovery.

  “Ilya, you have to tell me. Are you ill?” Feeling inadequate, she found a battered kettle and a water bottle. The water smelled musty and old, but it would be all right if it was boiled. Somewhere, there might be tea. She set the kettle on the stove.

  “Not ill,” Ilya gasped. “Anyway, can’t die. Unfortunately.”

  She frowned. “You’d better tell me what’s wrong. Are you an addict?”

  He looked up. His pupils were pinpointed against the pale eyes. He managed to smile. “So obvious, eh?”

  Without comment, Elena sat down beside him and took his hand. The bandage had come off; a raw red scar crossed his palm. She rolled back the thick sleeve of his shirt. Needle marks covered the inside of his forearm; he must be running out of veins by now.

  “When did you last take it?”

  “Few days ago. I swore I’d kick it, in the cathedral.” He gave a dry, rasping laugh. “I’m sick of it. I started to bore myself years before you were alive, and now it’s finally happened. I’m sick of being sick.”

  “Why did you start?” she asked; adding dryly, “Was that boredom, too?”

  “I wanted to blot out myself, the world, everything. I don’t imagine it’s an uncommon reason.”

  “No, I don’t imagine it is.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Ilya said, “Elena, you shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll be fit to travel.”

  “Withdrawal’s not supposed to be all that quick, Ilya,” Elena said doubtfully. “Have you tried it before?”

  He winced. “Once, a long time ago.” His gaze flickered, shifty and ashamed. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been an addict. It was hard. Right now, my very bones hurt, but I heal quickly.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” There was a flicker of something behind his eyes, a familiar longing, and she thought, If he wants me to sleep with him, what am I going to do? She was still holding his hand, his fingers curled cold in her own, and she was sharply aware of his presence and their isolation. The sensible side of her counseled caution, but Elena had a feeling that caution could be overridden at any moment.

  The realization of her attraction to him took her by surprise. It was a long time since she had wanted to be held by anyone, and he lacked both Yuri Golynski’s flashy good looks and confident air. Still, she thought, Ilya might not be a cosmonaut, but he was supposed to be a hero, wasn’t he? It seemed she was still drawn to a particular type.

  But Ilya said only, “The kettle’s boiling.”

  She found a packet of black tea. There was no food and Elena was uncomfortably reminded that she had not eaten all day, but there was no help for it.

  “It’s a good thing we’re Russian,” she remarked.

  “Why is that?”

  “We’re used to hunger and cold.”

  Ilya smiled. “Not your generation, surely? Not under these new men: Brezhnev, Gorbachev, Putin …”

  Names like beads on a chain, or those nested dolls that were so popular with the few tourists who made it as far as Almaty—parodies of politicians.

  Elena laughed. “New men? Brezhnev’s been gone for thirty years, I’m happy to say. That’s when the USSR really started to die, if you ask me—during the Zastoi, the Stagnancy.”

  “At least there was a degree of peace. And those men are new to me.”

  “If you are truly as old as you say you are,” Elena said dubiously, for she still did not quite believe him, “you must have seen a host of changes in Russia.”

  “Political changes, yes. But in reality? In eight hundred years, most of what I’ve seen has been people having kids, growing turnips, getting sick. They complain about the system—tsars or the Party, doesn’t matter what the theory is, the reality doesn’t seem to change all that much for most people. They grumble, they endure. And then there are the deaths.” His face creased momentarily, as if he did not want to face what he was saying. “All the deaths. Forty million, so they say, in the last century, what with the wars, the purges, enforced collectivization … And Communism was still better than the time of the tsars, except for Stalin. Russia is built on death. Yours has been a peaceful time, by comparison. I don’t imagine you had to look over your shoulder too much, or watch your words.” The irony of what he was saying must have struck him, for he smiled.

  “Not in my time,” Elena said. “You wouldn’t want to say anything too stupid in public, obviously, and you don’t want to fall foul of the authorities. That’s why you and I made a run for it, after all. I don’t see a whole lot of difference before the end of the Soviet Union and now. Things have shifted, that’s all. We still have the secret police, but now we’ve got the Mafiya as well. Democracy just means that a few families and their cronies run things rather than the Party, as far as I can see. Everyone’s greedy, because they have to be. Everyone steals as much as they can from the State. We’ve become a nation of thieves. When I was a little girl, you’d have to queue in the shops for food, and things often ran out, or they’d produce too much of one thing. We were too big a country for a command economy to work properly. Now there’s plenty of stuff in the shops, but no one can afford it. It all depends on what blat you have, what pull, whether you know enough people in power to give you a ‘roof.’ ”

  Her colleague’s remark echoed in memory: We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us. She repeated this to Ilya. “That’s all the country runs on now, dreams and air. Perhaps it’s always been this way.”

  “It’s the way things are,” Ilya said. “You just have to adapt.”

  “Yes, you have to adapt.” But he hadn’t done so well in adapting, she thought. The tracks on his arms were a testament to that. He must have read her expression, for he looked away.

  “Here’s your tea,” she told him. She passed him a tin cup and he sipped it in silence. Elena felt suddenly exhausted. “Look, I’m going to try and phone my mother, then get some sleep,” she said. “You should do the same.”

  “I don’t need much persuading.” But she could still feel his eyes upon her as she reached for the mobile and dialed the number. It rang endlessly, but they had to be there, for the answerphone did not come on. Finally a voice said, “Da?”

  Elena swallowed her relief. It was Anna, not her mother.

  “It’s me.” The line crackled with static.

  “Elena? Is that you? Where are you? We’ve been worried to death.”

  “I’m just outside Almaty. Look, try not to worry. Have the militzia been round?”

  “What? No. Have you been in an accident? We got your message, but when you didn’t come in for supper, we didn’t know what to think. I waited up, but I made Mama go to bed. She’s asleep. Are you all right?” Anna’s voice was sharp with worry.

  “I’m fine, but I’ve run into a few problems,” Elena said. Hastily, she gave Anna an edited version of events, leaving Ilya out of the narrative as much as she could. “Anna, I’ve got some money. One of the men paid me before—well, I got paid, anyway. I’m going to send it to you. When you get it, just take off. Go to Moscow. You’ve got my mobile number if you need to get in touch, or you can phone one of my friends.”

  “But are you sure they’re even after you?” Anna’s voice at the other end of the telephone was distant and puzzled. “I mean, no one’s called or been round, and you know what the authorities are like if they suspect something… . And there wasn’t anything about a murder on the news, either.”

  “I don’t know why the militzia haven’t contacted you. You’d better tell Mama what’s going on, but try not to make it sound too serious or she’ll worry herself to death. I—” But then the line went dead. It occurred to Elena that the phone at the flat might
have been tapped, but she had not heard any of the telltale signs: the clicking or whistling. She dialed again, but the signal had gone.

  “Your mother?” Ilya asked.

  “No, my sister.”

  “You live with them?” He paused, then added, “You’re not married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “No kids?”

  She was silent. He said quickly, “I’m sorry, Elena. I shouldn’t be prying into your personal life.”

  “It’s okay.” She reached out and touched his hand. He nodded, forgiven, and dropped into a doze.

  Swallowing the scalding tea, Elena hauled herself up onto the top bunk and covered herself with the blanket, then stripped off her wet hose. There was no lavatory in the hut; she would just have to go outside and manage as best she could if the need arose. She tucked her handbag beside the lumpy pillow, trying to make sure that the object would be safe. The blanket was thick and scratchy, but at least it was warm. The glow of the stove and Ilya’s ragged breathing provided the illusion of companionship and comfort.

  She was disconcerted by the thought that it would be easy enough to slip down and join him. Something told her he’d welcome it, and the memory of his body so close to her own was sharp in her mind. You’ve only just met him. You don’t know anything about him, and he might be mad. What about AIDS? You know what they say about addicts. It was a litany of reasons, the counsel of common sense, but her emotions and her body were dictating otherwise. Think of something else. Remember what happened to you today, this so-miraculous thing.

  It worked. When she finally fell asleep, it was with the memory of a different world in her mind.

  Two

  KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  Ilya spent the night in a fitful half-sleep, waiting for the dawn. Even here, high on the zhelau, he did not want to rule out the possibility that the rusalki might still find him, taste his pain on the wind, and seek him out. He was no longer worried about what they might do to him, but one of them had already attacked Elena and he knew that it had intended to kill. She had their property, and they wanted it back. And what of the volkh?

  At last, a thin grey haze appeared, high beyond the little window of the hut. Ilya waited until the light had grown and then, stiffly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slung the sword across his shoulder. Elena was curled on the top bunk, asleep. He looked down at her peaceful face for a long moment, longing to climb in beside her, then made his way outside.

  The storm had passed, leaving a chilly wind in its wake. Ilya went around the back of the hut to piss, then stood for a moment, leaning against the wall until his vision righted itself and the world stopped spinning. Hunger, fatigue, and the drug leaching from his veins were taking their toll. There was a ringing in his ears.

  “Dobreden!”

  Ilya spun round, reaching for his sword. He had heard nothing, but a man was standing by the side of the hut. He wore the knee-high, flat-soled boots that the Kazakhs had proved reluctant to relinquish, jeans, a jacket with an American flag on the breast pocket, and a Kyrgyz hat. His face was round and beaming; his smile revealed a row of gold teeth. He could have been anywhere between fifty and eighty.

  “Good morning!” he said again.

  “Good morning,” Ilya responded, warily. Friend or enemy, this person was cheerful and that was always to be avoided when one had just woken up.

  “Lovely day.”

  “I suppose it is, yes. Are you working up here?”

  The stranger nodded. “Took the animals up last week for a bit of spring grazing. Thought I’d get away from the wife. No doubt she’s pleased to see the back of me, too. I’m in the hut over the ridge. You?”

  “Car broke down,” Ilya said, improvising swiftly. “On the Kagornak Road. Over there somewhere.” He waved, indicating a vague sweep of countryside. “My wife and I were coming back from visiting relatives. We went looking for help, but then the rain came up.”

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  “I’ve no idea.” True enough. He had learned to drive, more or less, back in the 1940’s, but that was about the extent of his knowledge. “It keeps stopping and starting.” He tried to look urban and ineffectual.

  “Sounds like the timing’s gone, maybe.”

  “I’m sure we can get it going again,” Ilya said, trying to discourage any impending offers of assistance. “But in the dark, with the rain—”

  “Oh, best to find shelter. That’s what the huts are for, after all. Any number of folk have been saved from a night in the cold up here. Summer and spring, you’re all right—but winter, it’ll kill you, right enough.”

  Ilya nodded politely.

  “You don’t look so good.” The bright eyes creased with momentary concern. “You all right?”

  “I’ve had the flu.”

  “Want to watch that. Can turn to pneumonia. Can be nasty. Here.” The man produced a plastic bottle full of a white, viscous liquid. “Take it. I’ve been putting it up over the last week.”

  Ilya looked dubiously at the bottle. “What is it?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Milk?”

  “You’re Russian, aren’t you?” And unspeakably effete, the following glance conveyed. “Of course it’s milk—of sorts.” He laughed at his own joke. “It’s kymiss. Have it. I’ve got plenty.” He undid the stopper and the unmistakable odor of fermented mare’s milk wafted forth. It could be some trick, but the man’s face was guileless and there was nothing of the supernatural about him. Besides, there was a comradeship in the mountains. People hung together against more impersonal enemies: wolves and the weather. Ilya thought next of his vow: no more heroin. But he had made no promises to God about drinking, and did this actually count as alcohol? It was practically a foodstuff. He gave a brief nod.

  “Thanks.” He took a quick swallow. It smelled of meat. It tasted foul.

  “Give it to your wife.” The gold teeth glittered in the light of the rising sun. “Wonderful stuff for breakfast. And bread. I have more back at the hut. I don’t need it, and you’ll be hungry.” He handed Ilya a half-loaf of flat lepeshka. “Good luck with the car. If you want to go to the village, there’s a path down along the ridge.” He pointed. “Keep heading south—that’s that way. Take you about an hour. Ask for a man called Nurzhan Alibek—he’s a milkman; he mends cars, too. Lives in a small red house on the left. You’ll see the goats. Tell him I sent you. I am Zhanat Bigaliev.”

  “Thanks,” Ilya said. “For the bread, too.”

  “Good luck,” the man said again, and set off across the zhelau, whistling and striking aside the wet grass with his stick. Ilya watched him go with envy. This is what I should do. Leave the cities behind, leave the world to itself and come up here with the foxes and the eagles and the small creatures. But he had tried that, years ago, and though there had been peace for a time in the silences of the earth, it had not worked for long. He had grown restless, as if designed for action.

  “Ilya?” He turned to see Elena coming from the hut, clutching her still-damp coat around her. Her makeup had run in last night’s rain, leaving dark circles around her eyes. She looked very pale. He felt a wave of protectiveness. “I heard you talking. Is everything all right?”

  “I met a herdsman. He gave me this.” He held out the bottle. She looked horrified.

  “Oh, God, what is it? Kymiss? For breakfast? Not that I’m turning it down. I’m hungry enough to eat the original horse.” She took a sip and made a face, then handed the bottle back. “ Repulsive. But it’s what they live on up here, you know. Kymiss and horsemeat sausages and bread. It’s the worst diet in the world and they all seem to live to a hundred and ten.” Then she gave him an unsettled glance and stopped, as if fearing she had been tactless.

  “There’s bread. No sausages.”

  She wolfed down the lepeshka. “What did you tell him?” she asked between mouthfuls.

  “Our car broke down. He gave me directions to the neares
t village.”

  “Do you think that’s where we should go?”

  “If we’re still making for the border, yes. Find someone with a car, who doesn’t ask too many questions.”

  “They won’t ask questions,” Elena said with certainty. “Not if we can pay. I doubt there’s a policeman for miles.”

  “Let’s hope they still think we’re on the other side of the mountains,” Ilya said.

  “Which is where we should be, after all.” Elena drew closer to him, wrapping herself in her coat. “Ilya—what if it happens again? What if we change worlds?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll just have to see.” He had to fight the urge to put his arm around her; he did not think she would welcome it. “You still have the … thing? It’s safe?”

  She nodded.

  “We shouldn’t stop in one place for too long,” he said, though if he was honest with himself, what he really wanted to do was head back beneath the meager covers of the bunk and stay there. Preferably with Elena, but he stopped that line of thought before his unruly imagination got out of hand.

  “Give me the bottle,” Elena said. She made sure that the stopper was tight, and put it in the pocket of her coat. “It’ll keep us going. Maybe we can get shashlik or something in the village. I’d kill for a bath. Does my face look awful?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, and meant it.

  She grimaced. “You’re lying. But thanks anyway. I’d kill for some proper food, too.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

  “I can skin a rabbit, you know. My dad used to take us camping when we were kids, before he disappeared into a bottle of vodka. Excuse me for a minute. I’ve got to find a bush.”

  Ilya waited uneasily until she came back. The sun was now high over the peaks and the sky had the clear, blown look of early spring. With luck, the weather would hold. And they would find a car, someone to drive them over the border, and he could sleep.