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Authors: Kate Furnivall
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because of that, you survive today. Because of my help, you survive. But do you deserve to?”
Valentina lifted the baby from Katya’s lap and laid it on the bed. “I think it’s time we left.”
“You!” Still on her knees, the woman was pointing at Valentina. “I promise you that one day soon we will come for you and your kind, and this time you will not survive. You idle rich. You parasites.” She spat on the floor. “The workers will demand justice.”
Valentina took out her purse and upended it on the table. Roubles clattered everywhere, and the children scurried around like mice, gathering them up. “Take this because you helped me today. I am grateful.” She walked over to the kneeling woman and let her fingers touch the shiny scar on her head. Not wet, but smooth and slippery, as colorless as something that lived underground. “I’m sorry, Varenka.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“Valentina.” It was Katya. “She wants us gone.”
“Yes, you’re right. Before my man gets back.” Varenka glared defiantly at Valentina. “My Bolshevik.”
A loud bang on the front door startled them. Before they could react it came twice more, like a hammer blow, and they heard the wood splinter. The woman scooped up the baby and clutched it to her breast so hard it started to whimper. Valentina’s heart pounded. “Wait here, Katya,” she said.
“No, Valentina, don’t...”
The hammering on the door came again. Without hesitation Valentina opened the door into the dismal hallway and unlocked the shattered front door onto the street. A massive figure blocked out the light.
“What the fuck are you doing in this shit hole, Valentina Ivanova?”
It was Liev Popkov.
Six
A RKIN WAS A MECHANIC, BUT IN HIS HEART HE REGARDED himself as a skilled surgeon of machines. He took good care of his hands and read constantly about the latest inventions, expanding his knowledge. Thank the Lord he could read. Not that the Lord had anything to do with it. Most peasants couldn’t read or write, but his mother was the exception and used to rap his knuckles with her knitting needle to jog his sluggish brain into action.
“Viktor,” she used to say when he was at her knee struggling with a jumble of letters, trying to cram them into the shape of words, “a man who can read is a man who can rule the world.”
“But I don’t want to rule the world.”
“Not now. But one day you will. Then you will thank me.”
H E SMILED TO HIMSELF AT THE MEMORY. “SPASIBO, THANK you,” he murmured. Now he was twenty-three, and he did want to rule the world. His mother had been right.
“Arkin.”
He lifted his head. He was crouched on the concrete floor of the garage, rinsing the oil and horse dung off the spokes of the Turicum’s wheels, leaving their blue paint gleaming. His cloth splashed grimy suds onto his boots.
“What is it, Popkov?”
The Cossack had entered the garage on silent feet. For a big man he moved noiselessly. Like the wolves in the forest back home.
“What?” Arkin asked again.
“The mistress wants to speak to you in the house.”
“About this afternoon?”
“How do I know?”
Living on a farm in the middle of the godforsaken steppes teaches a man patience. In the countryside life is never in a hurry, the rhythms are slow, and Arkin knew well how to wait. He had left his village six years ago when he was seventeen, determined to live and work in St. Petersburg. Here he could feel the heart of Russia beating. Here the ideas of great men like Karl Marx and Lenin grew and spread underground like the roots of a tree. In this city, he was convinced, lay the future of Russia. He turned back to finish off the wheel before rinsing out the cloth and hanging it tidily on a hook. When he looked round, Liev Popkov was still there, as he’d known he would be. The big man was a law unto himself in too many ways for Arkin’s liking.
“What the hell were you doing?” Popkov demanded.
Arkin removed his
Valentina lifted the baby from Katya’s lap and laid it on the bed. “I think it’s time we left.”
“You!” Still on her knees, the woman was pointing at Valentina. “I promise you that one day soon we will come for you and your kind, and this time you will not survive. You idle rich. You parasites.” She spat on the floor. “The workers will demand justice.”
Valentina took out her purse and upended it on the table. Roubles clattered everywhere, and the children scurried around like mice, gathering them up. “Take this because you helped me today. I am grateful.” She walked over to the kneeling woman and let her fingers touch the shiny scar on her head. Not wet, but smooth and slippery, as colorless as something that lived underground. “I’m sorry, Varenka.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“Valentina.” It was Katya. “She wants us gone.”
“Yes, you’re right. Before my man gets back.” Varenka glared defiantly at Valentina. “My Bolshevik.”
A loud bang on the front door startled them. Before they could react it came twice more, like a hammer blow, and they heard the wood splinter. The woman scooped up the baby and clutched it to her breast so hard it started to whimper. Valentina’s heart pounded. “Wait here, Katya,” she said.
“No, Valentina, don’t...”
The hammering on the door came again. Without hesitation Valentina opened the door into the dismal hallway and unlocked the shattered front door onto the street. A massive figure blocked out the light.
“What the fuck are you doing in this shit hole, Valentina Ivanova?”
It was Liev Popkov.
Six
A RKIN WAS A MECHANIC, BUT IN HIS HEART HE REGARDED himself as a skilled surgeon of machines. He took good care of his hands and read constantly about the latest inventions, expanding his knowledge. Thank the Lord he could read. Not that the Lord had anything to do with it. Most peasants couldn’t read or write, but his mother was the exception and used to rap his knuckles with her knitting needle to jog his sluggish brain into action.
“Viktor,” she used to say when he was at her knee struggling with a jumble of letters, trying to cram them into the shape of words, “a man who can read is a man who can rule the world.”
“But I don’t want to rule the world.”
“Not now. But one day you will. Then you will thank me.”
H E SMILED TO HIMSELF AT THE MEMORY. “SPASIBO, THANK you,” he murmured. Now he was twenty-three, and he did want to rule the world. His mother had been right.
“Arkin.”
He lifted his head. He was crouched on the concrete floor of the garage, rinsing the oil and horse dung off the spokes of the Turicum’s wheels, leaving their blue paint gleaming. His cloth splashed grimy suds onto his boots.
“What is it, Popkov?”
The Cossack had entered the garage on silent feet. For a big man he moved noiselessly. Like the wolves in the forest back home.
“What?” Arkin asked again.
“The mistress wants to speak to you in the house.”
“About this afternoon?”
“How do I know?”
Living on a farm in the middle of the godforsaken steppes teaches a man patience. In the countryside life is never in a hurry, the rhythms are slow, and Arkin knew well how to wait. He had left his village six years ago when he was seventeen, determined to live and work in St. Petersburg. Here he could feel the heart of Russia beating. Here the ideas of great men like Karl Marx and Lenin grew and spread underground like the roots of a tree. In this city, he was convinced, lay the future of Russia. He turned back to finish off the wheel before rinsing out the cloth and hanging it tidily on a hook. When he looked round, Liev Popkov was still there, as he’d known he would be. The big man was a law unto himself in too many ways for Arkin’s liking.
“What the hell were you doing?” Popkov demanded.
Arkin removed his
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