Mike took the weight of the wood, which was at least eighty pounds, and popped open the trunk, dropping the large bundle in it. The woman was short and the wood must have weighed very close to her body-weight. Once he was in the Mercedes again he unlocked the far door and turned up the heater.
The woman got in and nodded at him.
“Spasebo,” she said in a very small voice, sticking her mittened hands under her armpits and then removing one to point up the road. She had left on her scarf so Mike couldn’t get a look at her face, but the eyes over the scarf were just lovely, a blue so dark and yet bright that they seemed to glow.
Mike followed her gestures carefully, including the ones to slow down as they came to curves. She clearly knew the road well. Fortunately, it was more or less level and only curved back and forth mildly. Mike couldn’t get a look beyond about ten meters but it seemed as if this must be one of those wide valleys that were sometimes found in mountains. He’d heard somewhere that they were from glaciers, but he didn’t know more than that about them.
The woman was clearly trying to pick out landmarks and suddenly made slowing motions, then pointed to the left, down a steep bank. There was a narrow road there, but it was a sharp descent. Mike considered it for a moment, then lined up the Mercedes and skied down the hill more than drove, ending up in a slight fishtail at the bottom. He lined out again, though, and followed the woman’s directions through the snow to a house that was up another slight slope. He realized as he did that it was a good thing he’d happened on her; they’d driven nearly two kilometers and it was unlikely she would have made it home alive.
The house was long and low, made of dressed stone, with a roof that looked to be slate. There were very few windows and those small, with shutters, which were closed. From behind the shutters, though, light glowed. As Mike pulled into the yard in front of the structure a pack of dogs burst into a chorus of barks and surrounded the car.
The woman got out, yelling at the dogs, as the front door of the house opened. A man stepped out into the blizzard, shouting at the woman in turn. The woman replied at length as she got out the wood, stumbling with it to the door and waving with one hand at the car and Mike.
Finally, the dogs gotten under control, the man gestured for Mike to get out of the car and come in the house. Mike got out cautiously, surreptitiously checking his piece, and followed the man and woman into the house.
The first thing that he noticed was the smell, a compound of wet dogs and people who didn’t bathe nearly enough overlain with wood smoke. The room was crowded with about ten people, adults and teenagers, and he could see the heads of older children peeking around a door. There was a large fireplace at the far end, near the head of a long table. Over the fireplace was a very moth-eaten tiger’s head.
Dinner had been laid out on a long trestle table and it reminded him that he’d been getting hungry as well as annoyed at his predicament. He kept his eyes off the food, though, nodding at the man who had invited him into the house as the woman began divesting herself of layers of clothing. The man was tall and broad as a mountain with a shock of dark red hair. He was wearing a white long-sleeved wool shirt and blue jeans, but what caught Mike’s eye was the heavy silver cross dangling from a chain. It was something like a Maltese cross with broad crosspieces that spread to look almost like an axe. It twigged something in Mike’s memory but he couldn’t quite place it.
“My name’s Mike Jenkins,” Mike said in Russian, using his current cover identity. “I’m American. I was headed for the Bakuriani Resort and I got lost. Is there a town around? My car’s nearly out of petrol.” At least, he thought that was what he said. His Russian was really rough.
Mike checked out the occupants of the room as he asked his questions. The first thing he noticed about them was that they were clearly peasants. Their clothing, the men’s especially, was rough stuff designed for heavy work. Jeans, which were becoming internationally ubiquitous, and heavy wool shirts. Those looked as if they might be homespun. The women were in somewhat brighter clothing, wool skirts with colorful blouses.
The second thing he noticed was the similarity in looks; this was clearly either a very large family or an extended one all living in the same house. There was a fair number of redheads, which was fairly unusual in Georgia where the people tended to be black or brown haired. There were even a few blonds, also unusual.
The third thing, and it took a moment for it to fully sink in, was the overall good looks. There were two older women, who could be anywhere from thirty to eighty given the way that peasants aged, but they were both quite good looking for all their wrinkles. The men were all robust and handsome almost to a fault, like Hollywood extras chosen for their physical looks rather than any group of peasants Mike had ever seen. And the younger women were just lovely as hell. Slim faces ranging from sharp to heart-shaped, slim noses, high cheekbones, mostly Tartar eyes and beautiful hair even half covered by colorful scarves. The group was simply startling in its looks.
“Alerrso,” the man said, waving up towards the road. He had the same family looks and was maybe fifty, with a square, hard jaw and hard eyes that were considering Mike carefully. “Six kilometers.”
“Spasebo,” Mike said, nodding at him and turning to the woman who had gotten her outer wear off to say goodbye. When he saw her, though, he froze.
The girl was no more than fifteen, probably younger, with the most beautiful face he had ever seen in his life coupled with those startling blue eyes and fiery red hair that peeked out from under her babushka scarf. He found himself mesmerized by her appearance for a moment until he physically shook himself.
“I hope you stay well,” Mike said, stumbling over the Russian phrases and his lolling tongue. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Spasebo,” the girl replied, looking down suddenly. “Was far walk.”
“You’re welcome,” Mike said, turning back to the man who was watching the two of them angrily. “I am sorry bother you. I go Alerrso. Thank you for directions.”
“Good night,” the man said, gesturing at the door.
Mike made his way out of the house and to the car in a daze, still entranced by the girl’s looks. He had met many women in his travels but none as lovely as that girl. She was just exquisite. And he’d never meet her again.
“What did he say to you?” Eugenius said, grabbing Katrina by the arm and shaking her as the door closed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” Katrina said, lowering her eyes and shaking her head. “I was on the road. He nearly ran me down in the snow. It was very far; I didn’t expect the snow so soon. I could tell he was lost, nobody like that with that car would come here. He asked me if I would ride with him and I knew if I didn’t I might not make it home. I’m sorry, Father, but I would have died if I hadn’t ridden with him.”
“You are a disgrace,” Eugenius said, shaking his head. “I should send you to town.”
“She could have done nothing,” Lena said, laying a hand on his arm. “Look at her; she was frozen when she came in. Nothing happened.”
“It is a disgrace,” Eugenius repeated, angrily. “We will all be disgraced by her!”
“Father,” Dutov said, going to the table and taking his seat, “he was American. He would not know our customs. Come, sit down and let us eat. Katrina is… Katrina. Getting angry at a cat for preening is… silly.”
“Father, I’m sorry,” Katrina said, shooting an angry look at her brother. “I would have died in the snow if I had not ridden with him. And I kept even my scarf on. We did nothing but drive back here. And now… he is gone. Nothing has happened, nothing will.”