Nine Layers of Sky Page 16

  “Elena? What is it?”

  “We’ve reached a roadblock.”

  The police officer stood by the side of the road, flagging down the car with a baton.

  “Sorry,” the driver said. “I’ll have to stop. He probably just wants money—they pretend you’ve been speeding, the bastards. Don’t say anything. Just have the money ready. Leave it to me. If he asks, say you’re my cousin and her husband.”

  But when they pulled over, bouncing across the potholes, the policeman put his head through the window of the car. Ilya saw an impassive face: a series of heavy slabs of flesh, a small, pursed mouth.

  “I wasn’t doing more than seventy,” the driver said. “I’ve got papers.”

  “I’m not interested in your papers,” the policeman said. “I need a lift.”

  “Sorry?”

  “A lift to the border. My colleague took the car. We’ve only got one, and it keeps breaking down. And then they phone me up, tell me to come down to the customs post, but how do they expect me to get there—walk? You’ve got room in the front, I can see.”

  “Ladna. Get in, then.”

  The policeman climbed into the front seat, removed his hat, and began to chat about the weather. Elena’s hand was clamped around Ilya’s own; she had a surprisingly strong grip for a woman.

  At first, he suspected that the policeman’s behavior—the request for a lift, the chatty demeanor—was nothing more than a ruse designed to lull two dangerous suspects into security and, ultimately, betrayal. But gradually he saw that the policeman had told nothing more than the truth. He had seen so many people like this over the years: petty officials and bureaucrats, relegated to some sleepy backwater, bored half to death. Or perhaps the policeman was content to be stationed in such a remote place, away from the Mafiya and the violence of the big cities. Perhaps the man just wanted a quiet life. It was hard to say, and harder still to judge. But he did wonder why the policeman had been summoned to the border in the first place. A simple matter of routine, or some other reason?

  Sleep was out of the question. But Ilya felt better than he had in days, perhaps even years. The craving for the drug had dissipated to a dull ache, just under the level of discomfort. He lit a cigarette. The car slowed down.

  “We’re almost at the border,” the driver said over his shoulder. The policeman gave a grunt, whether of satisfaction or annoyance, Ilya could not tell.

  They were surrounded by cars and trucks queuing for the customs post. The car inched forward. Soon they could see customs through the dust kicked up by the traffic: no more than a row of sheds and money-exchange kiosks. Ilya realized that he had no idea what the currency in Kyrgyzstan might be these days. It had been much easier with just the ruble, but now every little country wanted its own money. Men squatted on their heels in the dust, waiting for unknown transactions.

  “Our turn next,” the driver said. They could see a man in uniform moving slowly down the line. At last, he reached them. Elena’s fingers tightened around Ilya’s.

  “Papers.” The official was young, barely out of his teens. Ilya suspected that he had been drafted; police rather than army. He looked singularly unenthusiastic about his chosen duties. The policeman in the front seat got out of the car.

  “Thanks for the lift.” He added to the younger man, “Look, don’t worry about them. They’re all right.” He thumped the top of the car and wandered ponderously off toward the customs post. The young man waved them on. The car slid through the customs post and onto the highway to Bishkek.

  “And we didn’t even have to pay,” the driver crowed.

  “Thank you,” Elena breathed. A little farther down the road, she made the driver stop, and ran out to a money exchange. She came back with a handful of tattered notes.

  “Som, not tenge. They won’t take Kazakh money here.”

  “They’ll take dollars, surely?”

  “Yes, but—” She made a face and said in an undertone, “If people know we’ve got dollars, it might cause problems. Kyrgyzstan is poorer than Kazakhstan. They think Almaty’s like Paris.”

  “I’ve never been to Paris.”

  “I don’t think there’s much similarity, to be honest.”

  Ilya could see Bishkek in the distance, a line of haze backed by the mountains of the Kyrgyz Alatau. Something about the steep slopes, the fall of black hills to the steppe, tugged at Ilya’s memory. He had come here years ago, early in the nineteenth century, before there had even been a city, nothing more than a little clay fort on the Chuy River. Later—much later—he had skirted what had become a settlement: Pishpek, the town of the churn. There was something else he should remember, something hovering at the edges of his memory. He nudged Elena.

  “Do you know Bishkek?”

  “I’ve been here a few times. We came with my dad once, on the way to Issy Kul—the big lake, you probably know it. It was the year before he walked out on us.” Her face was sad, remembering, and he wished he could comfort her. “The last time I came was to a scientific conference at the university. It’s a quiet little place. It’s a bit like Almaty, only a lot smaller.”

  “We’ll have to find somewhere to stay,” Ilya murmured, with a warning glance at the driver. He could see that Elena understood.

  “It’s still early. We’ve got time.”

  The city suburbs gradually appeared, very different to Ilya’s memories of the place. This was a modern town, built on the same carbon-copy lines as Almaty. The Soviets had such a mania for order, Ilya thought. Here, too, there would be a TSUM store and a Gorky Park, a Lenin Prospekt. But the names must have been changed to those of Kyrgyz heroes by now. And that was what had been circling his memory like a wolf on the prowl: Manas. The great son of Kyrgyzstan, hero of a thousand legends and sagas. What had happened to Manas since Ilya’s epic fight with the man? He must surely be dead like all the others. But now that he thought about it, Ilya had never heard anything of the nature of Manas’ death; he had simply vanished from history. And now it seemed that there might be a place beyond this world, where one might vanish to… . Manas’ words rang in his head: We are born enemies.

  He caught sight of a prancing bronze figure on a horse, and craned his neck to get a better look. That was Manas, surely, that flying, flamboyant figure. Elena touched his arm.

  “Look,” she said. They were passing a very different icon, at the entrance to the park. “They’ve still got Lenin.” He could not tell from her tone whether this pleased her or not.

  “Never mind Lenin,” the driver said over his shoulder. “They’ve still got a statue to Felix Dzerzhinsky in Oak Park.”

  Ilya thought grimly of the Cheka—Dzerzhinsky’s secret police force—and a laboratory blazing in the winter snow. The Kyrgyz seemed to have foregone the current vogue for extinguishing the past. Perhaps it boded well. Or perhaps not.

  The driver pulled alongside the curb and turned to face them.

  “Tak. This is Bishkek. Do you want anywhere in particular?”

  Ilya shook his head. “This will do.” He reached into his overcoat and took out the money. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” It vanished into the driver’s pocket. “Good luck. Hope things work out. Hope your husband doesn’t catch up with you.”

  Elena managed a pale smile. “So do I. Thank you.”

  They watched in silence as he drove away. “What now?” Elena asked.

  “We should find some food. Then somewhere to stay. Do you know anywhere?”

  “We want to stay out of big hotels and anyway, there are only two. They’ll have FSB or the local equivalent at the desk. Maybe we can find a guesthouse.” She pulled her coat more tightly about her shoulders and stood upright in her new boots. “We still don’t know if anyone’s even after us.”

  “Best not to take the chance.”

  “If I can find a public phone, I’ll call my mother. My mobile battery is running low.”

  “There might be a phone in the park. There’ll certainly be food.” H
e could smell shashlik, hot and smoky through the thin spring air. They began to walk toward the center of the park. Here, farther south, spring was more advanced. The oaks were hazed with green and the new grass was springing up through the mud. In the center of the park was a small cafe. Ilya and Elena sat beneath a tattered plastic umbrella, ordered shashlik and salad and chai.

  “You’re drinking tea?” Elena asked. “You don’t want a beer?”

  He smiled at her. “No. And the only thing I crave at the moment is decent food.”

  “Do you think you’ve kicked it?” She spoke diffidently, as if reluctant to embarrass him.

  “I don’t know. I think it should take longer than this, but it’s gone for the moment. It might come back.” He grimaced. “I hope not. It’s no life, Elena. It’s no life at all.”

  The shashlik arrived, lamb interspersed with lumps of fat. Ilya tore into the meat. Elena looked uneasily about her.

  “I keep thinking that we must be being watched.”

  “Someone will be watching, I’m certain of it. The only question is who.” He listened for a stealthy footstep among the trees, but there was nothing, only the occasional raindrop. He was more worried about the rusalki and the volkh than the FSB. What if Kovalin held him responsible for the murders? But he did not think that it was too likely. It was evident even to a casual observer that the butchery had been done with teeth rather than a sword. Why had the rusalki killed Kovalin’s colleagues? And why had they not come after Elena, to retrieve their property? The little cafe suddenly seemed open and exposed.

  “Have you finished?” he asked Elena. “I think we should find somewhere to hide.”

  She swallowed the last of her tea and nodded. “At least we’ve got something inside us. Those cakes this morning weren’t really enough. When we came with my dad, I remember we stayed in a guesthouse on Shevchenko Street—an old couple ran it with their daughter. I was wondering if it’s still there. It was years ago.”

  “It’s as good as any, I suppose. Do you know how to get there?”

  “I think so.” Elena paid the waitress and rose to her feet.

  “We should walk. I don’t want too many people making a note of us.”

  “I don’t mind, after all that time in the car.” Elena looked away. A kind of careful constraint seemed to be growing between them. He wondered if she regretted letting him sleep in her lap. No doubt she only had done so out of pity and now wanted to head off the threat of further intimacies. He did not know how to approach the subject. Better, perhaps, to let it lie.

  He got the impression that Saturday afternoons in Bishkek were habitually quiet. There was a brief hum of activity around a building that might have been an employment agency: men sitting on their heels, smoking, chatting. Some of them looked as though they had been there since morning; patience was ingrained in their faces like dirt. Occasionally a woman would come out of the office and call a name, then retreat.

  Ilya and Elena left this limited bustle behind and turned down into a drowsing maze of back streets. Ilya heard children’s voices, but apart from this there was only the murmur of trivial conversation behind apartment doors. He paused, listening more intently.

  “Ilya?”

  A snatch of conversation, close by and plucked from the air.

  “It is the same man, I tell you. I have seen him before.”

  “And the woman with him?”

  “We must be careful.”

  Ilya imagined a finger, laid across invisible lips. The voices receded to a murmur, then silence.

  “What is it?” Elena asked.

  He shook his head, not wanting to worry her. “Nothing.”

  They passed run-down civic buildings, weeds growing in the cracks of the paving stones. There was nothing to remind Ilya of the little fort by the rushing Chuy, or the emerging frontier town that he had known so many years ago. The sleepy, dilapidated appearance of the place suited his mood; it was a world away from the rush and violence of the western cities. Elena frowned up at a street sign.

  “Trouble is, they’ve changed all the names… . It’s as bad as Almaty. Abdymomunov. That doesn’t ring any bells. I might have to ask someone.”

  They crossed the street, to where an elderly lady was walking a small tired dog.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me if Shevchenko Street is still Shevchenko, or have they changed the name?”

  “No, it’s still the same. But anyone will know. No one pays any attention to these new names. The old ones were good enough for years. Go to the end of the road, then right.”

  They found it easily enough after that, and to Ilya’s surprise, the guesthouse was still there, half-hidden behind the trees. Inside, there was a woman behind the desk, seemingly asleep.

  “Excuse me. We’re looking for—” Ilya hesitated, but Elena said, “A room. With twin beds.” The woman stared at them doubtfully.

  “You’re married? I’m afraid I can’t let you have a room if you’re not. It’s against the rules.” This was still an Islamic country, Ilya thought, despite the Soviet veneer.

  “We’re not married. This is my brother.”

  The woman might believe it, Ilya thought. They were both blue-eyed. The old poet Abai’s voice resounded in his head: You Russians, you all look the same to me. As like as one blade of grass from another.

  “We’ve just come from Kazakhstan, from Taldy Kurgan,” Elena went on. “We’re here to see my nephew at the university. His mother died recently, and there are some problems, so …” Her voice trailed away, but the woman’s face was immediately sympathetic. Ilya wondered where Elena had developed this talent for fabrication. He tried to look appropriately bereaved. Murmuring condolences, the woman shuffled around to the front of the desk.

  “Come with me. There is a nice room, looks out onto the street. Very reasonable in price.” They followed her along a narrow, dark passage and up a flight of stairs.

  “How much?” Ilya asked.

  “Five hundred som for the room, for one night. How long are you staying?”

  “We’re not sure. It depends how quickly we can get things sorted out.” Elena sounded harassed. The woman clucked.

  “Terrible, terrible. I’m so sorry. Maybe it won’t take so long. But the room will be available. It’s a quiet time of year, this. Very busy in the summer—they all come, on the way to the lake. Have you been to Issy Kul?”

  “Yes, a long time ago,” Elena said.

  The lake. Ilya remembered a shining rift of water, almost a hundred kilometers long, the mountains floating above it like clouds, and a great silence filling the world. He had stood on its shore and a man walking by with a herd of goats had told him its name: Ysyk Kol. It must be the same place. He had been there for almost a month, hiding out in the ruins of a fort that had once belonged to the Scyths. Despite its wildness, it had felt like a place of safety. The water had been warm, even in the depths of winter, the gift of underwater thermal springs.

  “Ilya?” Elena was looking at him oddly. “The landlady wants to know if this will do.”

  They were standing at the door of the room. Wan sunlight poured through grimy windows. He saw two beds, pushed apart, with iron-spring mattresses. The plaster was flaking, but heat was blasting out of a radiator and a television set stood in one corner. “It’ll be fine. Do you want us to pay now?”

  The woman nodded. “There’ll be a deposit. One night’s charge. Here are the keys: This big one is for the room, and these two are for the outside door. But I put the chain on after midnight, so don’t be late. There’s a girl who comes to do the cleaning in the mornings. If you need to ask for me, I am Raisana Akyenbekova.”

  Ilya handed over the money.

  “Sign here.”

  Ilya inscribed an indecipherable signature. “My name is Ivan Kostlovich. My sister is Natalya.” The woman nodded and left, closing the door behind them. Elena sank down on one of the beds. “Do you think the TV works?”

  “We can try. You’d better do
it, though. I’m not good with these new machines.”

  After some fiddling with the aerial, Elena got the thing to function. She crouched over it, changing channels until a picture appeared. An old film—some epic set in Soviet times—then a cartoon for children. Ilya eyed the fuzzy, brightly colored images with distaste. He did not like television. It contained too many voices, rang imperiously upon the ear. Elena frowned.

  “I was hoping for the news. What’s the time?”

  “Four o’clock.” Ilya said. He lay back against the bolster at the head of the bed and closed his eyes. Only for a moment, he thought, but when he opened them again, the sky was blue with twilight and Elena was nowhere to be seen. He was just about to go in search of her, still groggy with sleep, when there was the rattle of the key in the lock and she reappeared. Her blonde hair was wet.

  “I had a bath. Thank God; at last. The bathroom’s down the hall.”

  “You should have told me where you were going,” Ilya said, not yet forgiving her for the moment of panic when he had woken to find her gone.

  “I didn’t want to wake you. I thought you could do with a rest. How are you feeling?”

  “Not so bad.” He grimaced, rubbing his eyes. She had taken her handbag with her to the bathroom, he noticed. She did not yet entirely trust him. “Weak.”

  “You need food and sleep.”

  “I’ve had both. I need a wash.” He struggled up from the bed and went to the door. “I won’t be long.”

  The bathroom was some distance along the hall. Ilya shaved quickly, then stripped and stood under the trickle of brown water from the shower. It woke him up, at least. He went back to the bedroom, feeling slightly refreshed. Elena was watching the television. He sat down beside her, maintaining a careful distance between them, and was pulling on his boots when there was a knock at the door. They looked at each other in alarm.

  “It must be the landlady,” Elena said. She called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Raisana.”

  Cautiously, Ilya opened the door. The landlady was standing outside.

  “There’s someone to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t give a name. He’s waiting downstairs.”