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‘Not yet.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s good news in a way. I was afraid – ’ she gave a slight shake of her shoulders – ‘that the next time I might see her was when she was brought here.’
‘Do you have any particular reason for fearing that?’
‘No.’
‘She might just have run away.’
‘She might.’
‘If she had, would that surprise you?’
‘Would it surprise me?’ Vera Samsonova considered. ‘No, to the extent that she is an independent girl and capable of independent action. Yes, to the extent that she would have had to have had a reason.’
‘And you don’t know of one?’
‘No. Was there one?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘Well, I’m not the person to ask. I only know her slightly. She’s come to see me once or twice recently to ask me about something that she’s been reading.’
‘Which was?’
‘Oh, it was a book about infantile mortality. A bit out of date. But there were some comparative statistics she couldn’t understand – not the numbers, but the medical terms used.’
‘Nothing political?’
‘Political?’ Vera Samsonova stared at him.
‘Well, I just wondered. She disappeared from the Law Courts, you see, where she had been to watch a case being tried, and I wondered what had taken her there. Her parents thought mere idle curiosity, but I wondered …’
‘What did you wonder, Dmitri Alexandrovich?’
‘If it was an interest in justice.’
‘And that makes it political?’
‘Sometimes.’
Vera Samsonova was silent. Then she said:
‘We did not talk about that, Dmitri Alexandrovich. We talked about medical terminology. But, yes, in so far as the terminology was to do with perinatal mortality and the statistics were to do with comparisons between Russia and other countries and between rich cities like Moscow and poor ones like Kursk, yes, questions of justice were implicit, and, yes, if you press the questions far enough they do require answers which in the end are political. Was that what you wanted to ask me, Dmitri Alexandrovich? Because if it was, you’ve had your answer and now I suggest you leave.’
‘Don’t get annoyed!’ said Dmitri.
‘Well, I am annoyed, because it sounds as if you’re trying to get me to incriminate myself.’
‘I’m not,’ said Dmitri. ‘It’s just the way lawyers talk. Or, at least, Examining Magistrates talk.’
‘It’s the assumptions that lie behind what you say!’
‘I’m not assuming anything. I’m trying to find out what happened to Anna Semeonova. At first I thought something dreadful must have happened. But if it had, I think by now we would have found the body. So perhaps she went off of her own accord. But why and where to? Or, rather, who to? A boyfriend? But everyone assures me that is not so. Some other friend, then? We have been round them all. And in the end, Vera Samsonova, I have come to you.’
‘I hardly count as a friend.’
‘That will be a relief to Larissa Philipovna. But since it is clear that Anna Semeonova did not come to you, it means that we have once again drawn a blank, in that respect at least. But perhaps you can help me in another way. I ask myself why she could have gone off. Now, you and everyone else say that she is a serious girl; and she was at the Law Courts. Might there not be a connection between that and her disappearance?’
‘Why did you ask me about politics?’
‘Because that could be the connection.’
‘You think she has run off to be a revolutionary?’ said Vera derisively.
‘Well, young people from good families do sometimes go off these days. Not to become a revolutionary but to work for a cause. Giving out literature, addressing meetings, organizing with others – ’
Vera Semeonova shook her head.
‘Anyone less likely to become a political activist than Anna Semeonova,’ she said firmly, ‘you never saw. For that kind of thing you require a degree of hardness, perhaps, even a degree of hate. Anna Semeonova wasn’t like that at all. She was a sweet, gentle girl, full of sympathy for others.’
‘All right,’ said Dmitri, ‘perhaps I’ve got it wrong. I don’t know the girl, I’ve hardly even spoken to her. Let me try something else on you; you said she was full of sympathy for others. Is it possible that she could have gone off in some daft quixotic way to work for the poor? In a monastery, perhaps – no, not monastery, her parents said she’d gone off the Church, but something like that?’
‘A sort of personal “Going to the People”?’ asked Vera, interested.
She was referring to the great movement of some years earlier which had sent hundreds of idealistic young people out into the countryside to work for the improvement of the poor; an initiative that the poor had not universally appreciated.
‘That sort of thing,’ said Dmitri, who had sided with the poor on this matter.
‘She said nothing to me,’ said Vera.
‘Oh, well …’
But Vera was thinking.
‘It’s a long shot,’ she said, pulling a prescription pad towards her, ‘but I can give you the name of a family. I mentioned them to her once – it was the last time she came – when we were talking about the way in which conditions contribute to infant mortality. You know, drunken father, ignorant mother, poverty, dirt, dozens of children already. Anna could hardly believe some of the examples I gave. She asked if there was anyone I knew whom she could go and see, so I told her about the Stichkovs. She wouldn’t come to any harm, the man is always unconscious and the woman is warm and kindly, quite motherly, really, in fact, far too much so – ’
Dmitri felt oppressed by the sheer fecundity. One babe was at Mrs Stichkov’s breast, two, hardly bigger, at her feet. Elsewhere in the room there appeared to be three more infants and there were certainly at least two outside. From time to time one of the children at her feet hauled himself up Mrs Stichkov’s skirt and applied himself to her free breast.
‘It’s food, after all,’ said Mrs Stichkov, ‘and there’s not much of that about with Ivan not working.’
Ivan was certainly not working. He was stretched on his back in a far corner of the room snoring loudly. Even at this distance, Dmitri could smell the vodka.
‘He doesn’t work much,’ Mrs Stichkov acknowledged.
Except, thought Dmitri, when he roused himself to perform his conjugal duties, which appeared to be pretty frequently.
‘Not since he’s hurt his back,’ supplemented Mrs Stichkov.
‘Ah, he’s hurt his back?’
‘Carrying the loads. He can’t carry a thing now. Not even the water. You need a man for that, the buckets are that heavy! Anna Semeonova tried to help me once, but she couldn’t even lift the pail, not when it was full. You need a man, really, and she’s just a slip of a girl.’
‘She tried to help you, did she?’
‘Yes, Your Excellency. She said, “It’s not right, not with you expecting and all.” But I said, “Lots of things are not right, and if I don’t do it, who will?” “I will,” she said, and she tried, but, bless her, she couldn’t even lift it. “You look after Vasya”, I said, “and I will do it.” “It’s not right,” she said, “not with your time so close,” and she just stood there. And then Marfa Nikolaevna came along and said, “No, it’s not right. That idle man of hers ought to do it, but he won’t lift a finger.” She’s got a sharp tongue, that woman has. “I’ll find someone, Mrs Stichkov,” she said. And off she goes and comes back with one of the men from her place. Mind you, he wasn’t that much better than Anna Semeonova, nor much bigger, neither, not with him being a Jew. Still, what do I care about that. I said to Ivan, “At least he gave me a hand, which is more than can be said for some people – ”’
Mrs Stichkov shifted the baby from one breast to the other, gently detaching the other child as she did so.
‘– And then he gives me a cuff!’ she said cheerfully. ‘I don’t mind, it’s not much of one – he can hardly stand up, he’s that drunk – but Anna Semeonova gets very angry. I can see she’s going to say something, so I say quickly: “Don’t mind him, love, it’s just his way!” But she doesn’t like it, I can see that, and she goes out, and a little later I hear her talking to Marfa Nikolaevna. Which is all very well, I’m not saying that the woman is wrong, but you have to watch out with her. Sometimes it’s better to let things rest easy. But she won’t, you see, she’s always got to out with it, and when it’s man and wife, it doesn’t pay to meddle.’
Over in the corner, Ivan moved loudly. Mrs Stichkov looked at him lovingly.
‘You don’t always know what a marriage is like,’ she said, ‘not from outside. Especially not if you’re a single woman. “What does she know about it?” I say to Anna Semeonova. But Anna Semeonova stands there cold and unforgiving. “You’re too forgiving, Mrs Stichkov,” she says. “Sometimes those outside can see better.” But then, she’s another, isn’t she? Single?’
‘I believe so,’ said Dmitri.
‘She won’t be for long,’ said Mrs Stichkov. ‘Not a girl like her. So pretty! A real Russian! And rich, too. Or so Ivan says. “Stay on the right side of her,” he says, “and it’ll be worth a rouble or two.”’
‘She’s never said anything about having a boyfriend, has she?’ said Dmitri, still diligent to eliminate options.
‘Boyfriend?’ Mrs Stichkov chuckled. ‘She’s not found out yet what it is men carry inside their trousers! A real innocent! “And it’s best if she stays like that,” I said to Marfa Nikolaevna, “so don’t you go putting any of your ideas in her head!”’
‘What sort of ideas?’ said Dmitri.
Mrs Stichkov looked vague.
‘Ideas,’ she said.
Dmitri tried again.
‘This Marfa Nikolaevna,’ he said, ‘what sort of woman is she?’
‘She’s got a sharp tongue. Everyone knows that! There’s hardly anyone who’s not felt the rough edge of her tongue at some time or another. That’s why it is no one will have her. And that, of course, only makes her sharper. “It’d be a blessing,” I say to Ivan, “if some man would take that girl down in the fields some time.” “Well, no one’s going to do that,” says Ivan, “not unless it’s one of her own kind.” You’d think one of them would, wouldn’t you? She’s not bad-looking.’
‘What are these ideas you say she has?’
‘It’s not ideas,’ said Mrs Stichkov, ‘it’s what she says!’
‘And what does she say?’
‘Oh, about the land and all that.’
‘What about the land?’
‘She says it oughtn’t to be owned by anyone. “You can’t have that,” I said, “that’s silly. You can’t just leave it lying around!” “No, no,” she says, “that’s not it. Everyone would own it together, it would belong to everybody.” “The peasants wouldn’t like that,” says Ivan. “They think it should all belong to them.” “That’s because they don’t know any better,” she says. “Well, you go and tell them that,” says Ivan, “and see where it gets you!” “That’s just the trouble,” she says; “people won’t listen! And because they won’t listen, the rich can get away with anything.” “You want to watch that kind of talk, my girl,” says Ivan, “or else you’ll be in trouble.” So then she shuts up, she knows she’s gone a bit too far.’
‘Was that the kind of thing she was talking about with Anna Semeonova?’
‘She just talks,’ said Mrs Stichkov. ‘Out it all comes! Just like mother’s milk,’ she said, looking fondly down at the baby, now replete and blotto on its mother’s lap.
The houses were on the edge of town and just beyond them were open fields, still white with snow, and occasional clumps of birch trees, their branches heavy with ice. Dmitri contemplated the prospect and shuddered. Not for him the great open space of Russia, the steppe that poets sang about; for him the great open boulevards of St Petersburg, and that was exactly where he meant to be as soon as he could escape from this dump.
Back up to his left was a tanner’s yard and the smell of the yard hung over the whole area. The acrid fumes irritated his eyes and caught at his chest in a way that he did not understand until he saw the empty drums piled at the tannery gates. Chemicals were used in the yard’s processes. Little yellow rivulets ran down from the yard into the fields, colliding on the frozen surface of a small stream. Further along the stream the ice was broken and ducks, strangely discoloured, were swimming. Further along still, two women were filling pails to take up to their houses. Was this where Mrs Stichkov came to fetch her water? Where Anna Semeonova had tried to help her?
Of an impulse he went over to the two women. They put down their pails and watched him approach: a visitor from Mars.
‘I wonder if you could help me,’ he said, saluting them. ‘I’m trying to find Marfa Nikolaevna’s.’
They looked at him rather oddly. Then one of them gathered herself.
‘The tailor’s is over there,’ she said, pointing.
‘Thank you.’
He looked down at the pails. The water in them was yellowish. And, now he came to look at it, everything was yellowish. The mud was yellowish, his boots were yellowish, the broken ice on the stream was yellowish, a duck clambered out and waddled towards him and that, too, damn it, was yellowish on its underfeathers.
‘This water is not fit for drinking,’ he said sternly.
The women shrugged.
‘It’s all the water there is, Your Honour,’ said one of them.
‘You should go up beyond the yard,’ he said.
‘It’s much further,’ said one of the women quietly.
‘You should think of your children!’
‘Lev Petrovich should think of our children,’ said one of the women bitterly.
‘Lev Petrovich?’
‘He owns the yard.’
‘Someone should speak to him.’
‘Marfa Nikolaevna did,’ said the woman, ‘and see where it got her!’
‘I will speak to him.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said the other woman. ‘That may help.’
‘It won’t help,’ said the first woman dismissively. ‘He’ll just take it out on us. Thank you, Your Honour,’ she said to Dmitri. ‘It’s kindly meant, I know, but sometimes it’s best to leave things alone.’
‘Well, I’ll see … and this Marfa Nikolaevna, you say, went to see him?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
