Read Online Kolymsky Heights by Lionel Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lionel Davidson
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him!’
‘Could you put a name to him now?’
‘Raven!’ Lazenby said. The name had swum suddenly into his mind. A number of other things had also swum there. Whisky after whisky. Staggering down a road, the whole bunch of them. Red-haired Rogachev joking away. Then round a corner, up against a wall – a familiar corner, a familiar wall … It was Oxford, damn it! It had been in Oxford.
He looked up to find Hendricks and Philpott gazing at each other.
‘Raven?’ Hendricks said. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Almost sure. Also a Goldilocks. There were several people … it was all very – confusing.’
‘Goldilocks ?’ Hendricks and Philpott were again exchanging glances. ‘Look, Professor, if you were maybe into – nicknames – could Goldilocks have been Rogachev –a red -haired sort of fellow?’
‘Nicknames, ah. Yes, I suppose it could be.’
‘With the other fellow as Raven because he was dark , very dark, in fact black – his hair?’
‘Possible. Raven doesn’t sound too Russian, does it?’
‘No. This fellow isn’t Russian. He’s an Indian.’
‘An Indian?’
‘A Red Indian. Canadian. His name’s on the back there.’
Lazenby looked at the back. The caption read: J. B. Porter ( Dr Johnny Porter ).
‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’
‘I can’t say it does, no.’
‘Riots in Quebec?’
‘Oh, him. Well, I Well, wouldn’t have connected –’
‘No. He doesn’t look like that now. That’s the way he looked at Oxford. We think that’s where you met him.’
‘Yes, I think so too.’
‘Can you remember how you met him?’
‘Well, during a conference. At a reception, I think. For the delegates.’
‘He wasn’t a delegate. What was he doing there?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘Did he seem to know Rogachev already?’
‘I don’t know that, either. They were just talking away about Siberia.’
‘About what aspects of it – do you remember?’
‘Well.’ Lazenby thought. ‘Languages, people, physical impairment of some kind – blindness? Snow blindness, perhaps. Something of the sort. About Siberia, anyway. Rogachev had worked there, of course, and I thought this fellow some kind of native. They were talking Russian rather a lot, and he certainly seemed to know the place so I assumed –’
‘Yes, he knows Siberia. He’s been there. There isn’t any doubt this is who Rogachev wants. He won’t talk to us. We think he might talk to you. Will you talk to him now?’
Lazenby stared at him. ‘You don’t mean now, of course,’ he said.
‘We know where he is now. He’s a difficult man to pin down. Now we’ve pinned him down. He’ll be there for the next four days.’
‘Where?’
‘Montreal.’
‘Montreal.’ Lazenby thought of his fish on the way to the smoker’s. He thought of the whole river full of fish. ‘Well, damn it,’ he said, ‘I hardly know the fellow really.’
‘That’s right,’ Hendricks said. ‘Nobody does really.’
10
The name on his birth certificate was Jean-Baptiste Porteur but from the age of thirteen he had become plain Johnny Porter.
He was a Gitksan Indian, one of the small bands affiliated to the larger tribe of Tsimsheans who inhabited the Skeena river area of British Columbia.
The language of the Gitksans was K’san and only a smattering of it was understood outside the tribe. Few of the tribes were mutually intelligible. But almost as soon as he was talking the young Jean-Baptiste could also talk Nisqa, the language of the Nass Indians. Not long afterwards he had some Tsimshean, too. This was a language so unique that linguists had been unable to relate it to any other on earth. The other tribes found it incomprehensible. By eleven he was fluent in Tsimshean.
It was this ear for language that took him, at thirteen, to the mission school – that and a disagreement with his uncle.
Like all Gitksan males (and males of the affiliated tribes) he had to leave home at puberty and live with an uncle
‘Could you put a name to him now?’
‘Raven!’ Lazenby said. The name had swum suddenly into his mind. A number of other things had also swum there. Whisky after whisky. Staggering down a road, the whole bunch of them. Red-haired Rogachev joking away. Then round a corner, up against a wall – a familiar corner, a familiar wall … It was Oxford, damn it! It had been in Oxford.
He looked up to find Hendricks and Philpott gazing at each other.
‘Raven?’ Hendricks said. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Almost sure. Also a Goldilocks. There were several people … it was all very – confusing.’
‘Goldilocks ?’ Hendricks and Philpott were again exchanging glances. ‘Look, Professor, if you were maybe into – nicknames – could Goldilocks have been Rogachev –a red -haired sort of fellow?’
‘Nicknames, ah. Yes, I suppose it could be.’
‘With the other fellow as Raven because he was dark , very dark, in fact black – his hair?’
‘Possible. Raven doesn’t sound too Russian, does it?’
‘No. This fellow isn’t Russian. He’s an Indian.’
‘An Indian?’
‘A Red Indian. Canadian. His name’s on the back there.’
Lazenby looked at the back. The caption read: J. B. Porter ( Dr Johnny Porter ).
‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’
‘I can’t say it does, no.’
‘Riots in Quebec?’
‘Oh, him. Well, I Well, wouldn’t have connected –’
‘No. He doesn’t look like that now. That’s the way he looked at Oxford. We think that’s where you met him.’
‘Yes, I think so too.’
‘Can you remember how you met him?’
‘Well, during a conference. At a reception, I think. For the delegates.’
‘He wasn’t a delegate. What was he doing there?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘Did he seem to know Rogachev already?’
‘I don’t know that, either. They were just talking away about Siberia.’
‘About what aspects of it – do you remember?’
‘Well.’ Lazenby thought. ‘Languages, people, physical impairment of some kind – blindness? Snow blindness, perhaps. Something of the sort. About Siberia, anyway. Rogachev had worked there, of course, and I thought this fellow some kind of native. They were talking Russian rather a lot, and he certainly seemed to know the place so I assumed –’
‘Yes, he knows Siberia. He’s been there. There isn’t any doubt this is who Rogachev wants. He won’t talk to us. We think he might talk to you. Will you talk to him now?’
Lazenby stared at him. ‘You don’t mean now, of course,’ he said.
‘We know where he is now. He’s a difficult man to pin down. Now we’ve pinned him down. He’ll be there for the next four days.’
‘Where?’
‘Montreal.’
‘Montreal.’ Lazenby thought of his fish on the way to the smoker’s. He thought of the whole river full of fish. ‘Well, damn it,’ he said, ‘I hardly know the fellow really.’
‘That’s right,’ Hendricks said. ‘Nobody does really.’
10
The name on his birth certificate was Jean-Baptiste Porteur but from the age of thirteen he had become plain Johnny Porter.
He was a Gitksan Indian, one of the small bands affiliated to the larger tribe of Tsimsheans who inhabited the Skeena river area of British Columbia.
The language of the Gitksans was K’san and only a smattering of it was understood outside the tribe. Few of the tribes were mutually intelligible. But almost as soon as he was talking the young Jean-Baptiste could also talk Nisqa, the language of the Nass Indians. Not long afterwards he had some Tsimshean, too. This was a language so unique that linguists had been unable to relate it to any other on earth. The other tribes found it incomprehensible. By eleven he was fluent in Tsimshean.
It was this ear for language that took him, at thirteen, to the mission school – that and a disagreement with his uncle.
Like all Gitksan males (and males of the affiliated tribes) he had to leave home at puberty and live with an uncle
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