“I guess not.” He gazed around. “But it’s so beautiful.”
I felt a glow of friendship toward him. “Exactly, Courier! Look about you. No one is hungry here, because we do manage to raise enough to feed ourselves. Everyone is working together in peace, regardless of race. The climate is mild. Could you ask for a better description of Paradise? If only we weren’t supposed to be making a profit!”
But he wasn’t listening to me. He was hastening ahead to look at the cemetery.
“I have to see Everything,” he shouted over his shoulder.
He was quite serious. He wanted to have the colony explained to him, from the gopher holes and plough-scored rocks to the flag atop the mast in the stockade. Then he wanted to meet everyone. Everyone, I say: he even reached through the bars in the jail to shake hands with poor little Fedor Svinin, the ex-clerk who had embezzled ten years’ worth of salary to cover his gambling debts. “You don’t say? Poor old guy!” He would have pumped hands with equal enthusiasm with Kostromitinov, the General Manager, had Piotr Stepanovich not been visiting our farm at the river. That was all right: he shook hands with all the local Kashayas he could find, who stared at him in mute incomprehension; he shook hands with every one of our Aleuts, who smiled politely and then wiped their hands on their sealskin shirts. Courier didn’t notice; he didn’t hold still long enough, leaping away to exclaim over some new feature of the settlement he’d just noticed. Everyone, everything enchanted him.
And really it was delightful, if a bit exhausting, to accompany someone who took such intense pleasure in the smallest details of mundane life. One saw through his eyes and the great trees looked bigger, the Indians more mysterious, the coastline more wild and romantic.
Though I must say I seem to have been the only one who enjoyed his company; Babin had already been talking to the other Russians about my mysterious visitor, and the ones who weren’t superstitious drew their own smirking conclusions about this effusive pretty boy. So much for my ever earning their respect.
Courier even approached Babin with his hand out, crying “Pleased to meet you, sir, my name’s Courier,” before Babin stepped back indignantly.
“By the Black Goat hisself!” he spat. “As if I’d want to touch the likes of him, after the way he cut up on the Polifem !”
Courier lowered his hand, looking hurt and bewildered, as Babin turned and stamped off. “What’s wrong with him ?” he asked me.
“He, er, formed rather a poor opinion of you, I’m afraid. Apparently. When you were fellow passengers on the Polifem, ” I explained. “There seems to have been some unfortunate incident—?”
“There was?” Courier stared after Babin. “Oh. I guess I didn’t recognize him, huh?”
No amount of hinting could prompt him to tell me just what had happened on board the Polifem, but I thought perhaps he needed a little more briefing on Russian customs before he’d fit in at the officers’ table; so when time came for the evening meal I arranged for two plates of venison stew and we carried them to one of the rooms kept ready for visitors. Courier took his tin dish and clambered onto his bunk with it, settling his back against the wall. He sighed in contentment.
“Look at this! This is real frontier living. Look at these bare timber walls. Look at that old oil lamp—it’s burning seal blubber, isn’t it? And this is a real wool trade blanket I’ll be sleeping under tonight! Gosh. What an experience.” He spooned up a mouthful of stew and chewed ecstatically. “Mm-mm! So this is venison, huh? Kind of like beef, isn’t it?”
“You mean you’ve never tasted venison before?” I stopped eating in surprise.
“Not that I know of.” He swallowed and washed it down with a big gulp of kvass. “Golly, that’s good! Never had that before, either.”
“Now that I can believe.” I smiled. “I take it, then, you’ve been primarily posted to cities during your career?”
“Well, sure.” He put another spoonful in his mouth.
“Where have you been?”
“Oh, here and there. You know.” He waved his spoon vaguely. It occurred to me that he might not be at liberty to reveal previous assignments, and therefore it would be good manners to refrain from further questions. I gave an impromptu talk on Russian manners and mores during the rest of our meal, occasionally interrupted as he noticed yet more picturesque things to exult about, like the tin reflector behind the lamp or the framed print of the Tsar.
When we had dined I took our tableware and made to leave him for the night, but a sudden anxious look came into his eyes and he stopped me.
“My orders,” he said. “Have you got them?”
“Why—no,” I told him. “Here. Wait, I’ll see if any transmissions have come in yet, shall I? Though I haven’t heard the signal—” I put down the dishes and took out my credenza. “No … no, not a word. See? I’m sorry.”
“But why haven’t they sent my orders?” He fidgeted.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, my friend. I can transmit an inquiry for you, but we may not get a reply for hours, or even days.”
“That’s all right, you send it. I know my orders will come.” He nodded his head confidently. So I typed in the inquiry, and as I’d suspected the green letters just sat there and glowed. But Courier seemed to have been comforted, and so I bid him Goodnight.
On my way to the kitchen, a figure loomed into view, blocking the corridor, and my heart sank. It was Kostromitinov, the Manager. He did not look pleased with me.
“Kalugin!” he intoned. Oh, dear; he hadn’t even taken off his riding boots. “We have a guest, it seems, Vasilii Vasilievich? A stranger? And in my absence you’ve given him a complete tour of the colony, fortifications and all? Let him count every one of our cannons, I suppose?”
“It’s not like that at all, sir,” I protested. He was backing me up against the wall. “He’s simply a messenger, and I was obliged to offer him hospitality.”
“Did that mean you had to show him the armory, you idiot?”
“Sir, you don’t understand.” I let my lip tremble. “He brought a letter from home. There’s, er, been a terrible tragedy in my family—my dear aunt, my sainted mother’s only sister—she raised me from infancy—she—she—” a tear rolled down my cheek.
“She’s died, I suppose?” He took a step back.
“She was run over by a pie wagon!” I broke down and sobbed. Well, it was the first thing that came into my head. Kostromitinov exhaled and folded his arms.
“All right. All right. My condolences. But, Kalugin! This may seem an idle sleepy place, but do I have to remind you that we are on disputed soil? And you know nothing about this Englishman, do you, really? What if he’s a spy? What if he murdered your lawyer’s clerk and took the letter in order to get an opportunity to study our defenses for his government?”
“He’s not an Englishman.” I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. “He’s from Kiev. He, er, lost his trunk and had to borrow those absurd clothes from a fellow-passenger who happened to be English.”
“On the Polifem ?” Kostromitinov raised his eyebrows. “How interesting. I heard nothing about any foreigners on board. Still, who tells me anything nowadays? Why should I receive any directives from the Governor?”
“A-actually I believe it was before he left Siberia, Piotr Stepanovich.”
“I see. So the unpleasantness on board the Polifem had nothing to do with your friend losing his trunk?” Kostromitinov thrust his face close to mine.
“No, it—that is—was there an unpleasantness on board the Polifem ?” I tried to look surprised. “My goodness, he seems such an affable young man.”