weight of water striking his shoulders. His boot went deep into the edge of a rut as he crossed the square and he tugged to pull it out. It came with a snap of air audible over the rain. It took several minutes to reach the other side. Mutz stopped at the corner of a barnsized log building raised on piles, with a sign across the gable. It was too dark to read it, but he knew what it said: G. A. Balashov – Goods – Groceries. The store, with windows on either side of the door, was shuttered up. Mutz climbed the steps to the door and knocked on it gently. He put his ear to the door, listened for a while, and walked back down to the square.
To the right of Balashov’s store was a narrow gap between it and the next building. Mutz walked through the gap, through soaking clumps of dandelion, nettles and chickweed. The store was bigger than it seemed from the square. After a couple of small windows the wall stretched back, blank, for some thirty five or forty metres. The rain had stopped and halfway along, from inside the building, Mutz heard a faint beating, a sound between a drum and a pulse, and something else so indistinct and subtle he took it at first for a tinnitus in his own ears. He’d been to the seashore, near Trieste, when he was twenty. The sound was like that.
A steam whistle cried three times from the forest and the searchlight on Captain Matula’s train beat at the darkness beyond the roofs of Yazyk. In the back yards neighbouring Balashov’s, roped curs raised their heads and barked back. Mutz reached the far end of Balashov’s store. At the back of the building was a compound surrounded by a high, solid wooden fence. Sergeant Nekovar stood against the fence, stubby and thwarted as a shrub, the last of the rain dripping off the ends of his moustache.
‘Humbly report, brother, they’re all in there,’ whispered Nekovar. ‘Rotating and pronouncing and prophesying. Three hundred and forty nine individuals, two hundred and ninety one males, fifty eight females.’
‘Can I go up?’
Nekovar knelt down and brought up a retractable ladder which he extended and set up against the side of the building. Its components moved with greased silence and the metal rungs were solidly joined in place. Mutz shook his head.
‘When you get to the top,’ whispered Nekovar, ‘lean forward and you find a handle. Pull it very gently towards you and a trap opens in the roof. Push the door upwards. It swivels. Climb in and you’ll see a small slit of light where I’ve cut aport for you to look through. The floor of the roof space is strong but move quietly or they might hear you.’ He sounded bored with his skill.
‘How did you do all this without anyone noticing?’ whispered Mutz, angry for some reason he didn’t understand.
‘I’m a practical man,’ whispered Nekovar. Oh he was bored. Give him something difficult to do.
Mutz began climbing the ladder. Nekovar held the foot. As Mutz reached the top the ladder swayed and bent with his weight but did not seem about to topple. Gripping the ladder with one hand, Mutz reached forward blindly, expecting to touch the wet planking of the roof. His fingers found cold, rain-smeared metal. The handle was in his fist. He pulled, pushed, the hatch opened, and warmth and dryness puffed out, and the smell of Balashov’s store, salt fish, cheap tea, dill and vinegar, sawdust, kerosene, mothballs and freshly cut wood. Mutz stepped off the ladder and into the roof space.
The beating sound was clearer. It was the stroke of a foot stamping on timber. Mutz heard the shudder and the rasp and the pain and the many lungs now in the sound of the sea. It was a gathering of people, breathing together. He saw the light where Nekovar had cut his spyhole. He moved towards it as softly as he could in his boots, lay down, and looked through it into the warehouse at the back of Balashov’s store. A form turned in space. On either side of the warehouse were lamps and men and women swaying
To the right of Balashov’s store was a narrow gap between it and the next building. Mutz walked through the gap, through soaking clumps of dandelion, nettles and chickweed. The store was bigger than it seemed from the square. After a couple of small windows the wall stretched back, blank, for some thirty five or forty metres. The rain had stopped and halfway along, from inside the building, Mutz heard a faint beating, a sound between a drum and a pulse, and something else so indistinct and subtle he took it at first for a tinnitus in his own ears. He’d been to the seashore, near Trieste, when he was twenty. The sound was like that.
A steam whistle cried three times from the forest and the searchlight on Captain Matula’s train beat at the darkness beyond the roofs of Yazyk. In the back yards neighbouring Balashov’s, roped curs raised their heads and barked back. Mutz reached the far end of Balashov’s store. At the back of the building was a compound surrounded by a high, solid wooden fence. Sergeant Nekovar stood against the fence, stubby and thwarted as a shrub, the last of the rain dripping off the ends of his moustache.
‘Humbly report, brother, they’re all in there,’ whispered Nekovar. ‘Rotating and pronouncing and prophesying. Three hundred and forty nine individuals, two hundred and ninety one males, fifty eight females.’
‘Can I go up?’
Nekovar knelt down and brought up a retractable ladder which he extended and set up against the side of the building. Its components moved with greased silence and the metal rungs were solidly joined in place. Mutz shook his head.
‘When you get to the top,’ whispered Nekovar, ‘lean forward and you find a handle. Pull it very gently towards you and a trap opens in the roof. Push the door upwards. It swivels. Climb in and you’ll see a small slit of light where I’ve cut aport for you to look through. The floor of the roof space is strong but move quietly or they might hear you.’ He sounded bored with his skill.
‘How did you do all this without anyone noticing?’ whispered Mutz, angry for some reason he didn’t understand.
‘I’m a practical man,’ whispered Nekovar. Oh he was bored. Give him something difficult to do.
Mutz began climbing the ladder. Nekovar held the foot. As Mutz reached the top the ladder swayed and bent with his weight but did not seem about to topple. Gripping the ladder with one hand, Mutz reached forward blindly, expecting to touch the wet planking of the roof. His fingers found cold, rain-smeared metal. The handle was in his fist. He pulled, pushed, the hatch opened, and warmth and dryness puffed out, and the smell of Balashov’s store, salt fish, cheap tea, dill and vinegar, sawdust, kerosene, mothballs and freshly cut wood. Mutz stepped off the ladder and into the roof space.
The beating sound was clearer. It was the stroke of a foot stamping on timber. Mutz heard the shudder and the rasp and the pain and the many lungs now in the sound of the sea. It was a gathering of people, breathing together. He saw the light where Nekovar had cut his spyhole. He moved towards it as softly as he could in his boots, lay down, and looked through it into the warehouse at the back of Balashov’s store. A form turned in space. On either side of the warehouse were lamps and men and women swaying
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