Dmitri turns in his seat. “And you have no idea who is living in this house?” He speaks English with an American accent.
“Nothing firm.”
“Are you even sure this girl is in Russia?”
“No.”
“So this is a theory.” He nods apologetically to Rachel.
Turning back to the track, he holds on to his hat as we hit another bump. The shadows are impenetrable spaces between the trees.
“And you think you will recognize this girl if she is your daughter?”
Rachel nods.
“After more than three years! Children forget. Maybe she is happy here. Maybe you should leave her alone.”
The forest relents for a moment, opening out into a clearing dotted with prefabricated houses, rusting cars and power cables slung from poles. Crows lift off from the ground like scraps of ash swirling from a fire.
Soon the trees blur the side of the track again and the car slides in and out of the ruts. Crossing a narrow bridge over a murky tributary, we come to an open gate across the road. A lake emerges on our left, the dark water broken by a makeshift pier that leans at an angle. Tied to one of the pylons are inner tubes, marooned in thickening ice.
Overnight snow has settled on the newly formed crust, so thin I can see the darkness of the lake beneath it, thick like blood. A shiver runs through me and I imagine Luke's face, pressing up against the ice from below.
The house, screened by ash trees, emerges at the end of a driveway paved with loose gravel. Most of the windows are shuttered and outdoor tables and chairs rest upside down on a paved area within a rose garden.
The driveway runs out at a large rectangular courtyard. A silver Mercedes, streaked with mud, is parked near the doors to a stable. The driver's door is open and Aleksei is sitting on the ground, propped against the wheel. A fine rain is falling, collecting on the shoulders of his overcoat and clinging to his hair. His face is completely white except for a neat black hole in his forehead. He looks surprised, as though he slipped on the ice and is gathering his thoughts before he gets up again.
The black Gallants pull up on the far side of the courtyard. The doors open and guns are pointed across hoods or bonnets or whatever the Russians call them.
A man steps from the door of the house carrying a rifle in the crook of his arm. He is younger than Aleksei but has the same narrow nose and high forehead. His heavy trousers are tucked into lace-up boots and a knife hangs from a sheath on his belt.
Stepping out from behind the car, I walk toward him. He raises the rifle and rests it across his shoulder like a boy soldier.
“Hello, Sacha.”
He nods and doesn't answer. Glancing at Aleksei he shows a flicker of remorse in the lowering of his eyelids.
“Everyone thinks you're dead.”
“The old Sacha is dead. You von't find him here.”
He has lost almost all trace of his English accent. Unlike Aleksei, Sacha didn't ever try to hide his Russian accent or his roots.
Rachel steps out of the car. She hasn't taken her eyes off Aleksei. It is as if she imagines he is going to wipe the blood from his forehead and stand up, having rested long enough.
The rain has turned to sleet.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
He glances at his boots. “Things have gone too far. He should never have come. He took her away from one home and now he wanted to take her away again. He has caused enough trouble.”
A woman appears in the doorway behind him. A young girl is pressed against her.
“This is my wife, Elena,” says Sacha.
Her arm is wrapped around the girl's shoulders, shielding her from the sight of Aleksei's body.
“We have taken good care of her. She has never wanted for anything.” Sacha searches for the words. “She has been like a daughter . . .”
Rachel's hand flutters to her mouth as if trying to stop her breath escaping. She moves forward, past my shoulder, crossing the distance between them.
Mickey is wearing jodhpurs and a riding jacket. Her hair is plaited and rests across her shoulder. Elena has an identical plait.
Edging closer, Rachel drops to her knees. The toes of her boots barely move the frozen gravel.
Mickey says something to Elena in Russian.
“English now,” says Sacha. “You're going home.”
“But this is home.”
He smiles at her gently. “Not anymore. You are an English girl.”
“No!” She shakes her head angrily, beginning to cry.
“Listen to me.” Sacha rests the rifle against the wall of the house and crouches beside her. “Don't cry. I have taught you to be strong. Remember when we went ice fishing last winter? How cold it was? You never once complained. Nyet.”
She throws her arms around him, sobbing into his neck.
Rachel has watched with a mixture of trepidation and expectation. She takes a deep breath. “I've missed you, Mickey.”
Mickey lifts her face and smears a tear across her cheek with the palm of her hand.
“I've been waiting for you a long time. I stayed in the one place—hoping I might find you. I still have your room and all your toys.”
“I can ride a horse now,” announces Mickey.
“Really!”
“And I can ice-skate. I'm not scared of going outside anymore.”
“I can see that. You've grown so tall. I bet you can reach the top cupboard in the kitchen, near the window.”
“Where you keep the treats.”
“You remember.” Rachel's eyes are shining. She holds out her fingers. Mickey looks at her tentatively and stretches out her own hand. Rachel draws her close and breathes in the smell of her hair.
“I'm OK now,” says Mickey. “You don't have to cry.”
“I know.”
Rachel looks up at me and then at Sacha, who thumps his chest trying to clear his throat. The young Russian policemen have gathered around Aleksei's body, running fingers over the collar of his handmade shirt and feeling the softness of his cashmere overcoat. Dmitri has unclipped the wristwatch and compares it to his own.
Meanwhile, the snow whispers down, swirling in eddies and whirlpools, turning shades of gray into black and white.
Another country. Another mother and child.
Daj is in a wheelchair with me alongside, enduring one of those long silences that other people find awkward. She is wrapped in a white shawl that she holds together with her curling hands as she stares motionless out the window like an ancient malevolent bird of prey.
Behind us a flower-arranging class is setting up on the tables. Blue rinses and gray heads hum, coo and twitter to each other, as they sort through greenery and blooms of different colors.
I show Daj the front page of a newspaper. The photograph is of Mickey and Rachel, embracing for the cameras in the arrival hall at Heathrow Airport. You can just see me in the background, pushing the luggage cart. Perched on the top suitcase is a hand-painted babushka doll.
Joe is in the photograph, too. Standing next to him is Ali out of her wheelchair, leaning on his shoulder for support. She's holding a poster saying, “Welcome home, Mickey!”
“Remember that missing girl, Daj—the one I tried to find all those years ago? Well, I found her. I brought her home.”
For a brief moment Daj looks at me proudly, curling her long fingers through mine. Then I realize that she doesn't understand. Her mind is answering a different statement.
“Make sure Luke doesn't go outside without his scarf.”
“OK.”
“And if he rides his bike make sure he tucks his trouser bottoms into his socks so he doesn't get grease on them.”
I nod. She lets go of my hand and brushes a nonexistent crumb from her lap.