The Sinistra Zone

12. NIKIFOR TESCOVINA'S CLOAK

When they found Petra Konnert, the railroad engineer’s daughter, on the platform beside the night freight train, she was still alive, but it was her wish to be taken straight to the barracks’ morgue. She’d traveled from Sinistra in a brakeman’s cabin, and the moment the train had stopped she’d tumbled out and never moved again, except for the dark fluids flowing out from underneath her in all directions. Her father, Peter Konnert, lifted her like a sack of wheat into a creaky wheelbarrow and rolled her through the dark village in the middle of the night.

Work piled up in the morgue in early spring, and the mountain infantrymen often called in the road worker, Andrei, for auxiliary duty, which he invariably accepted in exchange for a bottle of denatured alcohol; and so he was the one who now helped lay the girl out on the grimy, gray stone table. By dawn the last signs of life passed out of Petra Konnert through so many wounds caused by arrows, spears, bullets. Disturbances had erupted the previous day in Sinistra, and puppeteers and jesters, brandishing theater props, had engaged in quite a bout.

As usual, Andrei opened the room’s air vents, but on this morning, instead of dew-borne fragrances, an ignominious stink flooded in. On other spring days, the valley air was filled with the intoxicating scent of daphnes, those evergreen shrubs that bloomed during the night, but what now seeped through the vents into the morgue was the smell of human shit — the shit of the locals, and of the mountain infantrymen, still permeated by the musty bouquet of denatured alcohol.

No sooner had the sun risen and the fog lifted from the yard around the barracks than the explanation itself stank in full view on all sides. Daubed in a viscous brown glaze on the fences and walls — even on the wall of the morgue — was “YOUR MOTHER'S CUNT.” It seemed one or two of the agitators of Sinistra had found their way to Dobrin.

When Andrei’s night shift was over, Colonel Coca Mavrodin came to get him. That afternoon in the conservation area they were to distribute dog tags — the sort that were fastened to ankles and wrists. The jeep was waiting by the porter’s booth at the barracks’ front gate; on the back seat was a hemp sack full of the engraved, sheet-metal tags. The moment they turned out onto the road, a great big patch of snow shone before them, spread all over with huge brown letters: “UP YOUR MOTHER'S CUNT.”

“This is the work of Géza Kökény,” said Coca Mavrodin-Mahmudia. “I recognize the handwriting. If I only knew where he got all that shit.”

Spring was in the air, and the snowmelt had turned the stream into a raging torrent full of wide cascades, with wagtails chirping away on its sparkling, foaming rocks. On the banks, lurking in the grass like secretive candles, were the purple flames of the dwarf gentians that had suddenly blossomed overnight.

“I have to admit I’m exhausted, Andrei.”

“It’s not good to share private matters with someone like me.”

“Oh, that just slipped out.”

Whenever a jeep wound its way that far up, its noise resounded all at once between the valley walls. Hardly would it have passed Colonel Jean Tomoioaga’s sentry box by the crossing gate than already everyone above that point knew that the mountain infantry was on the way. By the time the jeep rounded the last bend in the road, Nikifor Tescovina would invariably be outside, standing between the oily puddles on the road.

Now, though, only a few crows bounced about amid the puddles, and no bluish curls of smoke hovered in the air above the wood shingles of the commissary. The door swung gently on its own now and again, touched by the breeze.

His back to the entrance, Nikifor Tescovina was rummaging about, stooped over a heap of satchels. He must surely have heard the jeep approaching along the steep road, its tires squelching in the mud. He must also have heard Coca Mavrodin’s steps as she arrived on the threshold. But he did not turn around. His two little girls, their long black hair wrapped in kerchiefs, were sitting on the edge of the plank bed, pressed tight against each other. They wore white felt hats and brand-new knee-high moccasins fashioned out of rubber tires, as if dressed for the grandest of holidays.

“Are you traveling?” asked Coca Mavrodin, stepping around the bags.

“Me?” replied Nikifor Tescovina, standing up only after tying shut one of the satchels.

“It’s just that all these bags gave me that idea.”

“Oh, no. Sometimes I like to rearrange my things.”

“Should I put the tags on them all the same?” asked Andrei, placing the hemp sack full of dog tags on the table. “Or no sense in that anymore?”

“Go ahead, as far as I’m concerned.”

The girls’ feet were grimy and smelled a bit of fungus once the socks came off. As Andrei groped at their ankles and wrists, their arms trembled and pea-size crystalline tears formed in the corner of their eyes.

“This is the newest craze,” said Coca Mavrodin, “to go away. You caught it too, I see.”

“I’m just rearranging my things,” repeated Nikifor Tescovina.

But Coca Mavrodin no longer heard him. She’d stepped out of the commissary and had passed the jeep, walking toward the trail that led to Géza Hutira’s cabin. Having flung the sack full of rattling sheet-metal dog tags over his shoulder, Andrei followed along behind. Nikifor Tescovina waited for Coca Mavrodin to reach the first trees that blocked her view, then signaled to get Andrei’s attention, whispering “Psst!”

“What is it?” Andrei called back.

Nikifor Tescovina waited silently for Andrei to come near him and then, seizing Andrei’s jacket above the chest, pulled him up close.

“You once told me that you’d show your gratitude if I wrangled you a job. Now’s the time. I beg you, please give me a twenty. One of those twenties, I mean. I know you have a few.”

“I can’t,” said Andrei, shaking his head. “Not that, Nikifor Tescovina. Just don’t ask me for that.”

“I know exactly where you keep them; Gábriel Dunka told me. If I want, I could even go there right now and help myself. But I respect you, and so instead I’m asking you, personally. Give me one of those twenties.”

“I’m sorry, Nikifor Tescovina, but no! Soon I’ll need every red cent — I’ll need money like mad.”

“Don’t think I’m asking you to let me have it for nothing,” said Nikifor Tescovina, gripping Andrei’s jacket above his chest. “I hope you know me that well. I’ll give you one of the kids. One is enough for me. I’m begging you, choose one — either one — so I can leave with the other one.”

“I’m too old for them. And, as I said, I need the money. I can’t part with even one cent. No, Nikifor Tescovina, I’ve said the last word on the subject.”

Sitting on the ground between a cluster of newly grown nettles and docks, with the wind humming over the discarded bottles all around her, Coca Mavrodin-Mahmudia was waiting for Andrei by the red spring. From that spot, one could see out to the end of the valley, to the sparkling roof of Géza Hutira’s cabin. Coca Mavrodin was watching his house through binoculars. She now turned toward the road worker and asked:

“Did he want money?”

“He brought it up.”

“Bad timing, huh? Now of all times, when you also need it so much. But I bet he hardly expected to get something for nothing.”

“Something like that.”

“Too bad you’re too old for that sort of thing.”

Not long before, a rain cloud had passed over the river basin, and now a glassy roe of freezing raindrops shone among the spongy clumps of grass. The cabin’s stone wall shimmered with thawing gray spots. On the inside, the window was covered with steam, which a hand sometimes wiped off so a face could peek outside.

The plank bed stood under the window, and on it, stretched out under a ragged blanket, was Géza Hutira. He held Bebe Tescovina with one arm, his beard mingling with the little girl’s hair. The light of the snow-covered mountainside fell on their listless faces through the now open door.

“You’ve never come this way before,” said Géza Hutira to Coca Mavrodin. “Something must have happened.”

“I’m only curious to know the weather forecast. What do the instruments say?”

“I haven’t had the time to take readings lately. Desire has had me in its fiendish grip.”

“I only see now that we’re the same age,” Andrei Bodor interrupted as he pinched Géza Hutira’s dog tag for a closer look. “We were both born in thirty-six.”

“Don’t let him tie those on us,” Bebe Tescovina now said. “Please don’t say another word to them.”

“Yes, ’36,” grumbled Géza Hutira, “that was a very good year. We all made something of ourselves.” He stroked, then ran his fingers through, Bebe Tescovina’s short red hair. “Let him tie it on you if that’s what he wants. Once they leave, we’ll take them off.”

The only sheet-metal dog tags left on the table were Béla Bundasian’s. As if the three tags bore different names, Coca Mavrodin held each one up to the light and read them one by one before flicking each one out the open door onto the icy grass, the stones. She removed her cap. Then, who knows why, she rolled up the sleeves of her greatcoat just a bit and began climbing the ladder to the attic until her head reached the ceiling.

“I’d like for you to finally introduce me to your stepson, Andrei. I hope we find him at home.”

With one hand she pressed open the trap door, and through the opening she peered into the darkness of the attic, which was broken only by the blades of light flashing through the cracks in the roof’s wooden shingles. Béla Bundasian’s eyeglasses sparkled among them.

“Allow me,” said Andrei, standing on the ladder behind Coca Mavrodin, “to introduce Béla Bundasian, my stepson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bundasian. I’ve got to start with a confession — the Devil knows what came over me, but a moment ago I threw your dog tags out the door. They’re not needed anymore. I came by to let you know.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve erased you from the records. From what I know, your father has an acquaintance who will take the two of you far from here. You’re strangers, so leave this place.”

“I don’t know you. How can I know what you want?”

“I promise — get out while you still can.”

“At the moment, leaving is out of the question.”

“Don’t start making a fuss.”

“Even you know I killed someone. I can’t leave this place.”

“Killed? Of course you haven’t. You’re mistaken, Bundasian; everyone is alive and well around you.” On noticing that Béla Bundasian had dug his hands into the hay mattress and was now pressing some straw against his ears, as if he didn’t want to hear another word, she added, “I’ll send bats and owls here to squeak and hoot into your ears until you think it’s over. If I’ve let you go, then — go.”

By the time they climbed back down to leave the cabin, Géza Hutira and Bebe Tescovina were not to be seen. Only laughter bubbled out of the holes in the lovers’ blanket, along with the jingling of the dog tags on their intertwined ankles and arms.

“What will you get by on when you leave?” Coca Mavrodin asked as she and Andrei walked back down. “How will you earn your living?”

“I’ve been thinking of bone carving, Miss.”

“What am I supposed to make of that?”

“While wandering about the woods I’ve found lots of bones, and I’ve been giving carving a try: flowers, deer, mushrooms, colonels standing watch. People go for that sort of thing.”

Every single window of the commissary was smashed, and birds fluttered in the empty room inside. Moss had already encroached over the threshold, and the door suddenly creaked with age in the wind. On it hung Nikifor Tescovina’s cloak, which he’d tied with wire, piece by piece, out of Gábriel Dunka’s marmots. It even had a hood, and from it hung a piece of birch bark scribbled with these words: “I’m taking a twenty after all, Andrei. You’ll need this cloak of mine, otherwise you’ll freeze among all that cold mutton.”