My own head hurts so badly by this point that it feels as if I have an axe in my brain, too. Usually those of us here in Tschernowo leave each other in peace. Sometimes we visit each other, but never all at once. We have an unspoken agreement that everyone takes care of his or her own problems without disturbing the others. For example, I don’t wave Laura’s letter and shout, “Who can tell me what this says? Can anyone tell the difference between German and English?”
But now there is a collective problem, and there are flies on it.
Petrow turns up at some point as well. Everyone moves aside for him: his apparent proximity to death affords him respect. He wasn’t expecting the crush of people and he peers around somewhat intimidated. From the look on his face it’s clear that he, too, wants me to decide what to do next. I sigh. My ribs hurt worse and worse, but that’s not something I want the others to notice. I press a hand against them as inconspicuously as possible.
“Petrow,” I say loudly. “Don’t you also tell me there’s someone lying in the garden.”
Petrow closes his mouth and tries to read my expression.
Sit down with the others and act shocked, I try to tell him with my eyes. I won’t betray you. The others have no idea it was you.
The animated chattering continues.
“We have to call an ambulance!”
“A hearse,” corrects Petrow shyly.
“We need to go to Malyschi.”
“What would we do there? They’re all corrupt and drunk.”
“I can’t manage the hike there.”
“Who here is in the best shape?”
“Me, I’m practically dead.”
“I’ve had water in my lungs for five years.”
“My heart laughs itself silly if I take more than three steps.”
The ones who feel sickest of all are the two rosy-cheeked Gavrilows. Of course. In the end, it emerges that they all consider me the fittest.
“The audacity you all have to suggest an old woman, who already has one foot in the grave, undertake this journey. Don’t you have any conscience? I was just in Malyschi and won’t manage it a second time.”
“All right, Baba Dunja.” That’s Petrow now. “I’ll go. You look really pale. Everyone out, she needs to lie down.”
The Gavrilows do in fact make a show of trying to get up from my bed. But then they sit back down. I look at Petrow’s translucent face. He almost certainly hasn’t eaten anything today, and very little yesterday. His eyes gleam and the few hairs on his head are standing on end. You didn’t have to have been a nurse’s assistant to see that Petrow wouldn’t make it far.
It really will have to be me. I’ll take Glascha. If I walk slowly and breathe gently, I might make it. I just need to gather my strength a little, for fifteen minutes at least. But before I can tell everyone, Sidorow’s voice quakes through my house.
“One could also call the military police.”
He really said it: One could also call the military police.
A feeling of awkwardness spreads through the house.
“Perhaps you can phone home like E.T., but us earthlings need a functioning line.”
That’s Petrow. I can tell from the faces of the others that as far as they are concerned he is speaking in riddles. Who knows what half-rotted book he’s been reading.
“I only wanted to help you idiots.” Sidorow’s voice wells up, offended. “It won’t be long before he stinks to high heaven.”
Everyone nods. Nobody wants Sidorow to get upset.
“The sound quality is VERY GOOD!”
“Thank you, Sidorow,” I say. “Maybe later.”
He slams the door as he leaves, shaking my entire cottage. Someone must have found what was left of my gooseberry vodka, which I keep for medicinal purposes. When the bottle is passed to me it is as good as empty. I look around for a glass but then just pour the rest straight into my mouth from the bottle.
The door suddenly opens and Glascha appears on the threshold in aluminum foil.
“I called Mama,” she says loudly, after she has found me.
I shove the empty bottle behind my back, ashamed.
“I told you.” Sidorow rocks back and forth behind Glascha like a reed in the wind. Glascha’s whole face is lit up.
“I called Mama. I knew the number.”
“You are my clever little piece of gold,” I say. “Sidorow, I tell you this in all sincerity: I’m already sick to my stomach without your help. Get out of here and don’t make the child crazy.”
“Mama is picking me up!” says Glascha. “Together with the military police.”
I feel during the next few hours that they could be the last for our village. The Gavrilows have done something sensible for the community for a change and covered the dead man with a tarp. I didn’t even know they had one, though I had a feeling their farm was a stockpile of valuable and useful things. The others have scattered and gone back to their own houses and yards, and I’m alone with Glascha and Marja, who has spread out on my bed. I sit on a chair and try to find a position in which my ribs hurt a little less.
“I don’t think the foil does anything,” says Marja.
“Pffff,” I say. “It helps a lot.”
“Do you know who did it?” asks Marja.
As long as the child is sitting nearby with her ears perked up I can’t risk Marja elaborating on her thoughts to me. I shush her admonishingly.
“I think it was Gavrilow,” says Marja, not wishing to understand my warning.
“Stupid woman, a boil on your tongue, what motive would he have?”
“He was afraid that he was going to get robbed.”
“You spent too long in the sun, Marja.”
“Or it was you. You hunted him down.”
I spring out of my chair in shock. But I get dizzy and nearly fall over. Marja doesn’t notice, she is working on her fingernails with a file Irina sent me.
“Why would I have done it, Marja?”
“Because he was evil.”
“I can’t kill everyone who is evil.”
“Not everyone, naturally.” Marja yawns. “Don’t get so upset, I’m not going to snitch on you.”
“Neither am I,” says Glascha.
If I were ten years younger I would now be very scared. But as it is I’m just tired. I’m waiting for everyone else to hole up in their houses so I can sit undisturbed on the bench outside. I dream of winter: everyone cowering inside and the wind blowing snow against the window. I’m even looking forward to Glascha no longer being here. She’s constantly hungry and I won’t let her eat vegetables from my garden. I make her gruel with UHT milk I fetched from Sidorow, and mix in the last of my sugar because she won’t eat the mush otherwise.
“Your mama will surely be here soon.”
“My mama is coming as fast as she can.” Glascha presses into my hip and buries her snub nose in the folds of my skirt. “My mama cried on the phone.”
“And did you really hear her voice? On that broken phone?”
“It wasn’t broken. It just crackled a lot.”
I sit on the bench and wait. The others are back in their houses, though noses are pressed against windows and eyes peek through the holes in fences. Only Petrow sways in his hammock as if even the end of the world wouldn’t disturb him. I would like to tell him not to worry. Nobody will incriminate him.
You can hear them from far off, and it’s obvious that it’s more than one vehicle. Soon we see them, and it’s three. Out front is a tall black vehicle with thick tires. Behind are two cars belonging to the military police. They stop in a cloud of dust on the main road.
Glascha placidly licks clean her bowl of mush. The driver’s-side door of the black vehicle is the first to open. It’s the type of car that a man should step out of, not a blonde woman in pants like a man and shoes with high heels. Her hair sticks to her head and her mascara is running.