Korolev turned to hand the tickets to the collector, and made the effort to smile, even though, if the truth were told, he was unsettled by the two men behind them.
“Will we go swimming straightaway?” Yuri asked. Korolev took back the clipped tickets and pushed him forward gently.
“As soon as we’ve unpacked. Not a moment later.”
“Good, after we’ve unpacked then.” Yuri looked up at him and Korolev nodded to confirm his agreement. He was jumping at shadows-he had to be. The men couldn’t be who he thought they might be. After all, why follow him? If State Security wanted to know what he was up to they could just demand he tell them. And if they were worried about what he might do-well they could stop him doing anything ever again whenever they chose. And if the men were from State Security, they’d been surprisingly visible-almost as if they’d wanted to be seen. Why on earth would they want that? That wasn’t the way they did things.
Korolev risked another look back as they neared the old monastery, where the road turned to the left-but the men had gone. Probably they’d just been ordinary citizens after all, coming back from a night with friends in Moscow, likely as not. That was it. That might make sense.
He wasn’t so reassured, however, that he didn’t keep looking behind them from time to time-just in case.
* * *
Babel’s dacha was a fifteen minutes’ walk from the station-a fine house: a red-painted corrugated-iron roof topping the white-planked walls, and a solid concrete base for it all to stand on. It was only a couple of years old and sat in a small clearing in the forest. Behind the house was a garage that Babel had no car for, and a small cottage for Lipski, the caretaker, an old comrade of Babel’s from the writer’s years with the Red Cavalry. Korolev could think of worse places to spend a few days with his son, and he told himself to put all his irrational concerns aside. All was well, he was sure of it.
Korolev stopped on the driveway and squeezed his son’s shoulder, determined to send his worries packing.
“Hear that?” he asked.
“What?” Yuri asked, looking around him.
“The wind in the trees, Yuri. If we were in Moscow now, think of the hundred different noises there might be now-cars, trams, people, building work. Here it’s only the wind in the trees.”
Yuri looked up at him and then at the house.
“Your friend lives here?”
“He’s away in the south. He told me to use it while he was away.”
“He has a whole house to live in-on his own?”
“No-he lives upstairs from us in Moscow. This is just his summer house. I told you about him-Babel. The writer.”
“His summer house?” Yuri seemed to consider such luxury a mathematical problem. “And he has an apartment as well?”
Korolev resisted the temptation to explain to the boy how some people were more equal than others in this socialist society of theirs.
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
Korolev directed the boy toward the side of the dacha where steps led up to a covered porch that ran around two sides of the house. The hollow sound of their footsteps brought a twinkle-eyed old man to the doorway-Lipski. When Babel had been allocated the house, he’d managed to wangle a job for the old Cossack.
“Korolev? I wasn’t expecting you till later. So this is the boy? Let me look at him.”
Lipski leaned forward so as to be able to examine Yuri on an equal level, his rosy cheeks seeming to glow with pleasure above his thick white beard.
“So you’re the famous Yuri Korolev?” he said.
Yuri considered the question for a moment before nodding his agreement.
“A Pioneer as well, are you?” Lipski reached out to touch the red scarf tied around the boy’s neck. Yuri took a step backward to avoid the caretaker’s hand, but Lipski’s smile didn’t dim.
“I never heard of a shy Pioneer. Did you, Korolev?”
“I’m not shy,” Yuri said, looking at the caretaker’s boots.
“That’s good to hear. Do you swim at all?”
“I swim.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. That’s the best riverbank this side of Moscow, not a hundred meters away. What do you make of that?”
Yuri said nothing.
“We’re going for a swim later on,” Korolev said-deciding some kind of intervention was necessary, unsure why Yuri had decided to clam up all of a sudden.
“Good, good,” Lipski said, pushing himself up to his full height, no longer smiling so much as grimacing. He was still fit, the old cavalryman, Korolev could see, but age caught up with everyone’s bones in the end.
“I’ve made up the beds for you and aired the place. If there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.” Lipski glanced down at Yuri with a thoughtful expression. “I can pick up food from the shop for you if you need it-I’m going that way.”
“We brought some,” Korolev began, but then he looked at Yuri and wondered if he’d brought enough. “But if you’re passing, we could probably do with more.”
He found his wallet and handed him two five-rouble notes. There was no point in asking for anything in particular-Lipski would get them what was there. That was the way things worked in village shops.
“I’ll bring you change, don’t worry about that.” Lipski nodded over his shoulder in the general direction of the river. “They’ve turned the old monastery into some sort of summer camp for children and they’ve been bringing orphanage kids out from Moscow the last few weeks. Not many of them Pioneers, I can tell you-as rough a bunch as I ever saw. A lot of people avoid the river when they bring them down to swim, just so you know.”
Korolev thanked him for the tip and they said their farewells.
“What was all that about?” Korolev asked Yuri, when they’d walked inside.
“What do you mean?”
“You went very quiet.”
“I don’t know him.”
Yuri’s expression seemed to be a mixture of stubbornness and uncertainty.
“He was being friendly. Don’t they teach you to respect your elders at school?”
Yuri considered this for a moment. “They teach us to respect those who strive for socialism and to judge each citizen on their merits. For all I know, that fellow could be a Fascist spy.”
“A Fascist spy? I know him, Yuri. He fought for four years with the Red Cavalry. He’s a good comrade. He’s sure as hell no Fascist.”
“Pavel Anatoliyevich says that the older comrades have to be watched no matter what they say they did.” Yuri spoke as if reciting something learned by heart. “He says that some of the old comrades were never real socialists. He says they just fought on our side to save their skins.”
Korolev didn’t speak for a moment. When he did allow himself to say something he kept his voice low and even. “Who is this Pavel Anatoliyevich?” Korolev had to admit he didn’t like the sound of the fellow.
“He’s the teacher who leads our school’s Pioneer detachment.”
“And this Pavel Anatoliyevich-where did he fight? Back when fellows like Lipski and me were spilling our blood for the Revolution.”
Yuri looked embarrassed on behalf of his teacher.
“He didn’t fight-he was too young. But he’s a glider pilot.”
“I see-a glider pilot.” Korolev didn’t mean to sound as dismissive as he did-but it was some sorry state of affairs when young whippersnappers with an aeronautical interest were allowed to criticize men who’d fought with Budyenny against all comers and lived to tell the tale.
“He says many of the old comrades are contaminated by their past,” Yuri said, a stubborn look about him now. “He says they can never become real socialists. He says Soviet youth, who’ve grown up in a socialist society, will protect the Revolution in the future.”
“You think I’m contaminated by my past, perhaps?”
Yuri didn’t seem to hear the irritation in his voice, which was probably just as well. The boy shook his head.
“They don’t give the Order of the Red Star to just anyone. Pavel Anatoliyevich said so.”