Red Winter (14 page)

Her words took me by surprise and the hot soup caught in my throat, making me cough and bringing tears to my eyes.

‘He’s from a story, my angel, a
skazka
. And don’t pry,’ her father told her, as he pushed away from the table and went to the cabinet.

‘But you asked as if he was someone real,’ she went on. ‘Who is he?’

Lev came back from the cabinet carrying a bottle and two small bowls that served as cups.

‘I can see she obeys your every command.’ I smiled.

Lev sighed and shook his head as he uncorked the bottle, pouring a small amount of the clear liquid into each cup before pushing one towards me. ‘Just like her mother. If I said “shaved”, she’d say “cut”.’ He looked across at Anna with the strongest expression of love I had seen for close to six months.

‘I used to say the same thing about my wife.’ I smiled again and lifted the cup to sniff at it. ‘Vodka?’

‘Or something like it.’ He put his close to his lips and looked over at me. ‘So what do we drink to?’

‘A safe night.’

Lev nodded. ‘A safe night.’

The vodka burned as it went down, warming my chest, and I took a deep breath to feel its full effect. When I put the cup down, Lev had drained his too, so he refilled them both.

‘So who’s Koschei?’ Anna leaned forward and watched me, expecting an answer.

‘Your mother never told her the stories?’ I asked.

Lev tore a piece of bread. ‘She died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Typhus,’ he said.

I sat back and put down my spoon.

‘No. A long time ago,’ he said. ‘Just after Anna was born. She knew all the stories, but I can never remember them. All I remember is that Koschei’s soul was on the island of Buyan, inside an egg that was inside some other animal inside a chest . . . or something like that. You had to find his death to kill him.’

‘That’s
one
of the stories,’ I said. ‘He’s in more than one.’

‘Do you have children?’ Anna asked.

‘I have two sons.’

‘Then you’ll know the stories. Tell me one.’ She tried her soup once more, but it was still too hot for her, so she left the spoon in the bowl and sat back, crossing her arms.

‘It doesn’t always work like that,’ Lev said, watching me. ‘Perhaps Kolya has been away from home for a while . . .’

‘I have,’ I admitted, ‘but I still remember bits and pieces.’

‘Then tell me one,’ Anna said.

‘I’m no storyteller. That was always . . .’ My words caught in my throat and I stopped myself from finishing. Storytelling had always been Marianna’s love – that’s what I was going to say, but a flood of emotions had surged with that thought and threatened to overcome me. In the warmth of the small house, with the lamp burning, and sitting with Lev and Anna, I couldn’t help but remember the way Marianna told the stories to the boys, the way she revelled in the telling and they delighted in the hearing. The old
skazkas
. Mama and Babushka had both loved those stories, always filled with princes and princesses, witches and wives and devils and some poor peasant wandering back from the tavern.

‘Please.’ Anna shuffled on her seat.

When she had come into the house, she had removed her cap and jacket, making her look smaller. She had a slight, boyish frame draped in a shirt that was too big for her – or perhaps it had once been a perfect fit. Her skin was as white as the delicate flowers of the thimbleweed that rose from the forest floor in spring, and while there were dark circles under her green eyes, there was also the sparkle of a bright young girl burning in them. The plait in her hair had loosened further, strands protruding in all directions, and there was a look about her that suggested Lev had done the best he could for her, given their circumstances.

‘Have you heard about Marya Morevna?’ I asked.

Anna shook her head.

I dipped my bread in the soup and took a bite. I chewed it well, tasting every crumb, savouring the heat of it as I tried to remember the story.

All eyes were on me. Waiting. Expecting. Marianna would have enjoyed this. She would have drawn it out, turned down the lamp, leaned in to the table and lowered her voice. I saw her now, her blue eyes sparkling, the lamplight glistening on her golden hair, her fine features alive with the pictures she painted with words. I was no match for her in this, but I looked at each of them in turn as I finished the bread and ran my tongue round my teeth.

‘A long time ago,’ I said, ‘there was a prince. Ivan, he was called, and he was young and bold, as princes always are in the stories, and he had three beautiful sisters with shining black hair. But the tsar and his queen were ill, and as they lay dying, they made Ivan promise to look after his sisters and make sure they married well. He agreed, of course, and when they died, they died happy, knowing Ivan would take care of their daughters. Ivan and his sisters buried their mother and father in the palace grounds, and on the way back, a great storm arose. Black clouds covered the sky, and lightning flashed. Ivan and his sisters hurried home, and when they arrived in the great hall, there was a huge clap of thunder and a falcon flew into the room. When it landed, it turned into a handsome prince, who asked for one of the princesses in marriage. Ivan thought he was a good man, so he agreed.’

‘Princes and princesses,’ Anna said with disdain. ‘I want to know about Koschei.’

‘We haven’t come to him yet,’ I told her, taking another bite of bread. ‘We have to get past the princes and princesses first. You want me to stop?’

Anna shook her head.

I waited, recalling the story, and when I was ready, I hunched lower to the table and began speaking in a quieter voice. ‘So, three years in a row, three different princes came in a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning – first as a falcon, then as an eagle, then as a raven – and each time, Ivan sent his sisters away to get married. When they were all gone, he was left alone in the palace.’

‘Does that mean he was the tsar now?’

‘I suppose it does,’ I said. ‘Does that matter?’

Anna screwed up her mouth and thought. ‘Aren’t the tsars bad?’

‘You’re a revolutionary?’ I asked, and the image of a branded red star flashed in my mind.

‘Not really.’

‘Well. In this story, the tsars are good.’

Across the table, Lev held up his cup. ‘Your health.’

I lifted my own. ‘And yours.’

We drank and Lev refilled the cups as I continued. I was feeling good now. The
izba
was warm, the soup was nourishing, and the vodka was softening my thoughts.

‘So Prince Ivan was alone in the palace,’ I said.

‘That wouldn’t be so bad.’ Anna looked around. ‘Better than here.’

‘Better than without your family?’ I asked.

She looked into her bowl and took a spoonful of soup, blowing on it before tasting.

‘So he decided to go travelling,’ I said, ‘to visit his sisters. Only, the first thing he came across was a battlefield and a whole army lying dead on the steppe. Bodies everywhere. But he found one man alive among them, just one, and when he asked who had done this—’

‘Koschei?’ Anna asked.

‘No,’ I told her. ‘Not yet. The man told Ivan that the fair princess Marya Morevna had done it.’

‘A
princess
killed all those people?’

‘She did.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, but when Ivan found her, he must have been impressed because he fell in love with her and she with him.’

‘Just like that,’ Lev said.

‘Just like that,’ I agreed. ‘So they got married and lived together for a while until Marya Morevna grew bored and decided to go warring again, leaving Ivan alone in the castle. When she left, she told Ivan not to look inside her secret room, but, well, you know what it’s like when someone tells you not to look or touch or listen. He just couldn’t help himself, and one day, when he was bored, he opened the room and found a man bound by chains. He was tall and thin and gaunt and terrible-looking. A
monster
.’

‘
That’s
Koschei,’ Anna said. She stopped, spoon in mid-air, and sat upright with a pleased but concerned look.

‘You’re too clever,’ I said.

‘Go on.’

I lowered my voice again, starting to enjoy the telling, forgetting, for just a moment, about the real Koschei, somewhere out there.

‘Ivan thought the man was ugly and frightening, but he was a good prince and felt sorry for him when the man asked for a drink, so he brought him a bucket of water. The chained man drank it down and kept asking for more until he had drunk three whole buckets, but the water gave him his strength back and he snapped the chains like they were twigs and told Ivan he would sooner see his own ears than see Marya Morevna again. Then Koschei left in a whirlwind of smoke and fire and blazing eyes, and he found the princess. He snatched her up and threw her on his skeletal horse and took her away to his kingdom.’

‘Sooner see his own ears?’ Anna said. ‘All he’d have to do is look in the mirror. He’s a prince – he must have a mirror.’

‘There’s no fooling you, eh?’ I stopped and took the last spoonful of soup, wiping the crust of the bread round the bowl before looking over at the dog sitting by the
pich
. He had not moved from his warm spot, but his eyes were always on us. From time to time he closed them, but the slightest change in the rhythm of our voices caused him to lift his nose and check the room. I threw the crust of bread over to him and in an instant he was on his feet, chewing it down and licking his lips.

‘That was a good meal,’ I said to Lev. ‘Thank you. I think he liked it too.’

Lev took a packet of papirosa cigarettes from his pocket, offering them across to me. There were only three left in the packet and I hesitated, but he gestured for me to take one. ‘Please.’

I looked him in the eye and nodded once before taking it. Then I struck a match on the tabletop and lit both, savouring the first lungful.

‘Then what happened?’ Anna asked. ‘Did Ivan find Marya?’

The dog left his place, claws ticking on the wooden floor, and came to sit beside me, putting his chin on my lap. I ruffled his head, guessing no one had ever thrown him a scrap from the table before.

‘Does he have a name?’ I asked.

‘He’s not ours.’ Lev shrugged. ‘He was already here.’

‘He looks like he might have some wolf in him.’

Anna yawned and put out a hand to stroke his fur. ‘What happened to Marya?’

‘Where was I?’

‘Koschei took Marya.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, sitting back and waving a hand. ‘Well, Prince Ivan looked for her, of course. He looked for a long time, but the first thing he found was one of his sisters. She and her prince told Ivan to give up on Marya Morevna because Koschei the Deathless would surely kill him, but he wouldn’t give up on his wife, so he left and went on his way. Before he went, though, he gave them his silver spoon and told them that if it turned black, then it meant something had happened to him and they should come to look for him. When he found his second sister, she tried to stop him too, but he went on, giving her his silver fork, and to the third sister he gave his silver snuffbox. Then finally he found the place where Koschei the Deathless was keeping Marya Morevna.’

Anna stopped stroking the dog and went to sit on her papa’s knee. Lev put his arms around her and held her tight. Beside me, the dog moved, turning in a circle several times before flopping on the floor at my feet, making me look down and see my brother’s boots.

They waited for me to go on.

‘Koschei was out hunting,’ I said, trying not to think about Alek lying under the ground, ‘so Ivan took Marya and they rode away on his horse, but Koschei knew.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. He just
knew
. So he went after them, and though his horse was like a skeleton, it was much faster, so he caught up with them.’

‘Did he kill the prince?’ she asked.

‘No, he took pity on him, just as Ivan had once taken pity on him.’

‘So he let him go?’

‘Yes, he did, but not Marya Morevna. He kept her, so Ivan stole her twice more when Koschei was out hunting, and each time Koschei’s horse was too fast and each time Koschei forgave him. In fact, he forgave him three times because Ivan had given him three buckets of water, but after that, he decided enough was enough and he flew into a whirling rage. He jumped on his hellish horse and came crashing from the forest, sword raised, eyes blazing, and cut Prince Ivan into little pieces.’ I brought the edge of my hand down on the table in a chopping motion.

Anna halted mid-yawn and sat up straight. ‘But he’s the prince.’

I took a drag on the cigarette. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘And the prince always wins.’

‘Does he?’ I asked.

‘Of course he does. He’s—’ She stopped herself and shook her head at me, giving me the same stern look her father had given her earlier in the barn. There was something strangely inclusive about that, as if she had accepted me. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said, ‘but this is different.’

Anna was young, but not too young to know the fate of our own tsar, executed just two years ago, along with everyone in his family. She didn’t see any irony in the fact that the hero, Ivan, was now a tsar, though. She saw a
skazka
, a hero and a villain, that was all. ‘This is just a
story
,’ she said. ‘It’s not here; it’s . . . somewhere else. And in the
stories
, the prince
always
wins and the monster is
always
burned or drowned in the lake or killed with a sword.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s just how it always is.’

‘Not in this story,’ I said, narrowing my eyes and leaning closer. ‘I’m sorry. But this is the part my boys always love. Pavel especially. And Marianna loves telling it. You see, I’m afraid Koschei really does chop Ivan into pieces and he puts all the bits of Prince Ivan in a barrel and smears it with pitch. Then he binds it with iron hoops and throws it in the sea.’ I stopped and looked at Anna. ‘Are you scared?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He doesn’t die,’ I said.

‘How can he not die after all that?’

‘Because he’s the prince, of course –’ I winked ‘– and the prince always wins.’