‘Have you always been the blacksmith in Tivil?’
‘All my life. And my father before me.’
‘The village must have changed a lot.’
‘It has.’
He clamped his lips shut and said no more, but his dark eyes were not so cautious and a deep anger sparked in them. She looked away to give him a moment to hide it.
‘So you’ve known Rafik for many years?’ she said.
‘I have. He’s the best man you could wish for when handling a horse.’
‘And when handling a mind?’
He leaned forward, fists on the table, making it creak. ‘Seen him do it, have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s frightening, isn’t it?’
‘What is it he does?’
The smith’s hand stroked the smooth skin of his head, as if unconsciously protecting the contents of his skull.
‘It’s gypsy enchantment,’ he growled.
‘What kind of gypsy enchantment?’
‘Chyort! How would I know, girl? An ancient power of some kind, I suppose.’ Sofia watched him spread his arms out wide, taking in the whole baffling breadth of the universe. ‘It might be,’ he added in a lower voice, ‘drawn from the black arts, for all I know.’
She laughed softly. ‘I don’t think so.’
He reached across the table, plucked out a thread of her hair and wound it round his thick finger. ‘Rafik can twist your mind as easily as I twist your hair. If you’re his niece, as he claims you are, you must know all about gypsy skills, anyway.’
Sofia’s heart thumped. She wasn’t usually so clumsy, damn it. This blacksmith may have lived in a Ural village all his life but he was no fool and he kept laying snares for her to run into, just as he would for the animals in the forest.
‘My aunt married Rafik’s brother but I possess no gypsy blood.’ That was the story she and Rafik had concocted and she was determined to stick with it. ‘So I was taught nothing of their traditions or ways.’
He unwound the blonde strand on his finger and dropped it into the palm of her hand. ‘That explains it then.’ And he laughed, a boisterous sound, though she couldn’t for the life of her see the joke.
‘Stop teasing the girl, Pokrovsky.’
‘Rafik!’ Sofia leapt to her feet.
The gypsy was standing in the doorway. His slight frame looked unsteady, leaning heavily on the doorpost of his room. How long he’d been there she wasn’t sure, but she sensed it was no more than a moment or two. His shirt, which should have been a pale grey, was dark with sweat.
‘Rafik, you should be in bed.’
‘No.’ He accepted the arm she offered him and let her lead him to the maroon armchair. ‘We are under a cloud, black as…’ Rafik lifted the corner of his mouth in a thin smile, ‘as Pokrovsky’s fingernails over there. It hangs above us and-’ He stopped. Listened to something. Sofia didn’t know if it was to something inside or outside his head.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked quietly.
‘Not the village in danger again?’ Pokrovsky moaned.
‘No.’ Rafik turned his black eyes on Sofia. ‘No. It’s you, Sofia.’ He pulled himself to his feet and skirted a hand over her head without actually touching her. ‘It’s cold,’ he murmured. With jerky movements he wiped a large red handkerchief across his face. ‘Now,’ he said calmly, ‘we will take you to the kolkhoz office to-’
A rap at the door interrupted him. He nodded, as though it was what he’d been expecting. Sofia saw a flicker of something tighten his lips – was it pain, or was it knowledge of what was to come? – before he walked to the door and opened it. A shaft of bright sunlight rushed in.
‘Good day to you, Comrade Fomenko.’
The kolkhoz Chairman stood more than a head taller than the gypsy and for one fleeting moment Sofia thought he was going to brush Rafik aside, there was such determination in the way he stared straight at her, ignoring the two men. It made her uneasy.
‘Comrade Morozova,’ he said brusquely, ‘you haven’t registered yet as a resident of Tivil, I am told.’
‘I was just about to take her down to the office to do so,’ Rafik responded quickly.
‘Good. We need her in the fields. You’ll be assigned to a brigade, Comrade Morozova.’
Sofia’s tongue dried in her mouth. Just the mention of the word brigade sent a cold shiver through her. She made no comment, just returned his stare. Did this man think of nothing but his fields and his quotas? But his observant grey eyes were giving nothing away. They turned and studied Rafik for a long moment, then with a brisk nod of his head, he was gone. Sofia felt the sapping of energy inside the izba, as though something had been sucked out of the room.
‘Pokrovsky,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘tell your teacher that if she wants an answer, she must come and ask me herself.’
‘I lied to Mikhail.’
‘It was for his own good,’ Rafik pointed out.
‘He knows I lied to him.’
‘It was to protect him. The less he remembers about the sacks, the safer he is.’
‘I know. But-’
‘Leave it, Sofia.’ There was an edge to his voice.
‘Sometimes, Rafik, you scare me.’
‘Good. Because you scare me, my dear. Like you scared Fomenko.’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s why he came himself to check up on you. It’s clear he’s not sure about you. Our Chairman likes to be in control, so yes, you worry him.’
Sofia laughed softly and felt his answering smile strengthen the bond that had forged between them.
‘Are you sure this is such a good idea?’ she asked.
They were making their way down the dusty street to the kolkhoz office. It was by far the most conspicuous izba in the village, draped with placards and colourful posters listing the latest production figures and urging greater commitment from kolkhozniki. To emphasise the point, painted in large letters above the door was the statement: First Five Year Plan In Four. No one was going to accuse Stalin of not driving his people hard. Grey clouds were creeping up on the horizon, hovering above the ridge as if waiting for a chance to slip down into the valley. There was no breath of wind to scour Tivil clean. The smell of burned wood and ash still hung between the houses like a physical presence.
Rafik had changed into his bright yellow shirt and was walking carefully, one hand lightly on Sofia’s arm for support. She knew the effort was too much too soon, but she hadn’t argued against it. Never again would she put Mikhail’s life in danger the way she had today in Dagorsk because of her lack of dokumenti. Just the thought of how close it came, of the rifle pointed at his head, sent acid surging through her blood.
As they passed the blacksmith’s forge, Pokrovsky raised an oily hand but Sofia only had eyes for Mikhail’s son, Pyotr, who was standing there with him. He was a small figure beside the great bulk of the blacksmith, a pair of tongs clasped in his young fist. The boy wiped a hand on his heavy burlap apron and then across his mouth, leaving a smear of grease. Sofia smiled at him but he didn’t respond.
Rafik stumbled.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ Sofia told him. ‘You should be resting.’
‘Don’t fuss. If you don’t register as a member of this kolkhoz today people will start asking questions.’ His black eyes sparked at her. ‘You don’t want that, do you?’