The Story of a Life

30

The Inn on the Braginka

The old steamer was slowly paddling its way up the Dnieper. It was late at night. I couldn’t get to sleep in the stuffy cabin and went out on deck. Out of the invisible darkness the wind was blowing, carrying raindrops with it. An old man in a patched coat was standing by the captain’s bridge. The dim light of a lantern illuminated his bristly face.

‘Captain,’ the old man said, ‘couldn’t you do an aged man a favour and let me off on the shore here? It’s less than a verst from here to my village.’

‘What, are you joking?’ the captain asked. ‘I can’t see my hand in front of my face, but you want me to head into shore and smash up my boat for you?’

‘But I’m not joking,’ he replied. ‘My village is just there over the hill.’ He pointed into the darkness. ‘Let me off! Be so kind!’

Pretending not to have heard the old man, the captain asked the helmsman: ‘Terenty, can you see anything?’

‘I can’t even see my own arm,’ the helmsman growled sullenly. ‘This damned darkness! I’m steering by sound.’

‘We’ll damage the boat,’ the captain said.

‘Nothing’ll happen to your old tub!’ the man muttered angrily. ‘Call yourself a captain? You ought to be selling pears in Loevo and not taking boats up the Dnieper! Well, are you gonna drop me off or not?’

‘I’ve already told you!’

‘And I’m telling you!’ the old man answered, peevishly. ‘Who’s ever heard of passengers being ferried all the way to Teremtsy without stopping?’

‘Now listen,’ the captain shouted, ‘I can’t see a thing! Where am I going to land? Where?’

‘Right here, across from the steep bank!’ Once more he pointed out into the pitch-black darkness. ‘Right here! Let me stand next to the helmsman and I’ll show him.’

‘Know what?’ the captain said. ‘Why don’t you just go to hell?’

‘Aha!’ the old man cried with a note of victory. ‘So you refuse? Is that so? You refuse?’

‘Yes! I refuse!’

‘So, in other words, it means nothing to you that I’m hurrying to my daughter’s wedding? You couldn’t care less. You’re tormenting an old man!’

‘What’s your daughter to me?’

Suddenly, the old man lowered his voice. ‘But what about Andrei Gon?’ he asked menacingly. ‘You’ve not yet had the opportunity to meet Andrei Gon? Well, you ought to know that Andrei Gon himself will be at the wedding.’

The captain was silent.

‘Lost your tongue, have you?’ the old man asked in a nasty tone. ‘Your old tub is called Hope. Well, you’ll have no hope of getting home safely if you don’t let me ashore. Gon does good turns for me. He’s my brother-in-law. Gon won’t forget this.’

‘Stop threatening me!’ muttered the captain.

‘Sidor Petrovich,’ said the helmsman in a hoarse voice, ‘you can see what a stubborn old man he is. Let’s let him ashore. It’s not worth getting mixed up with Gon.’

‘Oh, fine, whatever!’ said the captain to the old man. ‘Go and stand by the helmsman and show him the way. But make sure you don’t wreck the boat.’

‘Good heavens! I know the Dnieper like the back of my hand! And I’m fully aware that the boat is government property!’

The old man went over to the wheel and began to give commands. ‘Down hard with your right hand! Harder or you’ll miss it! That’s it. Now again, harder!’

Willow branches began to lash the sides of the boat. The boat scraped against the bottom and then came to a stop. On the covered deck below, the passengers, jolted awake by the thud, began to make a noise. A sailor shone a lantern from the bow. The steamer sat in the flooded underbrush. It was about thirty paces to shore. Black water rushed among the bushes.

‘Well,’ the captain said to the old man, ‘out you climb. We’ve arrived.’

‘How can I get out here?’ the old man said, full of surprise. ‘It’s over my head. I could drown!’

‘What’s that to me? You asked for it yourself. Well?!’ shouted the captain. ‘Hurry up and jump or I’ll order the crew to toss you into the water!’

‘An interesting business this!’ muttered the old man before making his way to the bow.

He crossed himself, climbed over the railing, and jumped into the water. The water came up to his neck. Unleashing a torrent of curses, he floundered noisily towards the shore. The steamer slowly backed out of the thickets.

‘Well, still alive?’ shouted the captain.

‘Stop your barking! What do you think?’ the old man answered from the shore. ‘Just the same, you can count on a meeting with Andrei Gon.’

The steamer moved on up the river.

Elusive gangs of bandits had been roaming about Chernigov province and all of Polesia that summer. They raided isolated manors and farmsteads, robbed the mail and attacked the trains. The fastest and most daring of the atamans was Andrei Gon. Time and again units of dragoons and frontier guards surrounded him in the woods, drove him into the impassable marshes of Polesia, but every time Andrei Gon escaped to freedom, the flames of the fires he set behind him lighting his way through the dark night. Legends had already grown up around him. People said that Andrei Gon was a defender of the poor, the wretched and the orphaned, that he only attacked the manors of the nobles, that he himself was either a Chernigov student or a village blacksmith. His name became a symbol of popular vengeance. I was travelling that summer to those very places lorded over by Andrei Gon, to my distant relations by the name of Sevryuk. They had a small, modest estate called Iolcha in Polesia. Borya had arranged the trip. I didn’t know the Sevryuk family at all.

‘You’ll enjoy a nice rest at Iolcha,’ he had said. ‘The Sevryuks are a bit odd, but very simple. They’ll be happy to see you.’

I agreed to go to Iolcha because I had no other choice. I had moved on into the eighth form at the gymnasium. Having just passed my examinations, I was facing a long boring summer in Kiev. Uncle Kolya had left for Kislovodsk with Aunt Marusya. Mama had stayed in Moscow. And I didn’t want to go to Gorodishche because I could tell from Uncle Ilko’s letters that things were not going well between him and Aunt Dozia. Family quarrels frightened me. I didn’t want to see any more or be forced to play a part in them.

It was the evening of the second day of my journey when the steamer pulled alongside the low banks of the Dnieper. Clouds of mosquitoes whined overhead. The purple sun was sinking into the pale steam over the river. Cold came out of the underbrush. A fire was burning. Around it stood a few sinewy saddle horses.

The Sevryuks were waiting for me on the shore: a thin man in boots and a silk jacket, the owner of the manor; a short, young woman, his wife; and a student, her brother. They settled me into a cart, and then the Sevryuks jumped onto their horses and, with a yell, set off at a swinging trot. They quickly vanished from sight, and I was left alone with the taciturn driver. I hopped down from the cart and walked along the sandy road. Tall grass protruded out of the dark swamp water along the roadside. The faint reflection of the setting sun in the water refused to die. Ducks flew overhead, beating their heavy wings in steady rhythm. Fog crawled out of the undergrowth before settling like soft grey rags over the ground. Suddenly, a hundred frogs began to croak, and the cart clattered over a span of wooden planks. The manor, enclosed by a palisade, came into view. It was a strange, octagonal house with many verandahs and extensions, standing in a clearing in the forest.

That evening, as we sat eating a simple supper, a stooped old man in flimsy leather shoes and a cap with its peak torn off walked into the dining room. He took a long hunting rifle from his shoulder and leaned it against the wall. A black-and-white pointer followed him in, its nails clacking against the floorboards, sat and began to bang the floor with its tail. The banging was so loud, the old man said: ‘Quiet, Halas! Behave yourself!’

Halas stopped banging his tail, yawned and lay down.

‘Well, Trofim, what news?’ asked Sevryuk, and, turning to me, said: ‘This is our forester, our inspector.’

‘What news?’ Trofim sighed, taking a seat at the table. ‘All of the same sort. They’ve burned down the manor at Lyady, and at Staraya Guta they beat Pan Kaputsinsky to death, God rest his soul. He was a wicked old scoundrel, truth be told, but still … Nothing but murder and plunder all around, but you alone they seem to spare. It’s most peculiar! Why does he leave you in peace, that Andrei Gon? Nobody knows. Perhaps he’s heard you get on well with the peasants. Or maybe he just hasn’t got around to you yet.’

Marina Pavlovna, Sevryuk’s wife, laughed. ‘He’s always going on like that, Trofim is,’ she said. ‘Always amazed that we’re still alive.’

‘And may you live a long and healthy life,’ said Trofim. ‘I’ve nothing against it. Have you heard about the blind man’s guide?’

‘No, what about him?’ asked Marina Pavlovna excitedly.

‘What indeed! They’re burying him tomorrow at Pagonnoe. You ought to go.’

‘We certainly will,’ said Marina Pavlovna.

‘For that God will forgive you many a sin,’ Trofim sighed. ‘You might take me with you. I don’t have the strength to walk there on my own.’

Trofim looked out of the window and asked in a low voice: ‘Are we all alone?’

‘Just our own people,’ replied Sevryuk. ‘Speak.’

‘Well, all right,’ Trofim began mysteriously. ‘The Masters are holding a meeting at Leizer’s inn on the Braginka.’

‘Who?’ the student asked.

‘The Masters, you know, the Old Men of Mogilëv.’

‘Hold on a minute, Trofim,’ said Sevryuk. ‘Let me explain it to them. They don’t know anything about the Old Men of Mogilëv.’

It was then I heard for the first time the strange tale of the Old Men of Mogilëv. The story carried me back in time, a century or more, perhaps as far as the Middle Ages. For a long time, ever since the days of the Polish empire, a commune of beggars and blind men has existed in Mogilëv on the Dnieper. These beggars – known to the people as the ‘Old Men of Mogilëv’ – have their own elders and teachers, the Masters.

The Masters train the new members of the commune in the complicated ways of their craft – how to chant the religious verses and beg for alms – and teach them the demanding laws of the beggars’ world. The beggars are scattered all across Polesia, Belorussia and Ukraine, but every year the Masters gather in some secret place – an isolated inn on the marshes or some abandoned forester’s hut – for trials or the admission of new beggars into the commune. The Old Men of Mogilëv have their own language that outsiders can’t understand. In times of trouble, in the years of popular unrest, these beggars became a terrible force. They kept the peasants’ anger alive with their ballads about the wicked rule of the Polish landowners and the heavy burdens of the exploited village folk.

After this tale, the region of Polesia, where I now found myself, acquired a completely new image in my mind. It seemed that in this land of swamps and stunted forests, of mists and wilderness, the fires of resentment and vengeance, like the sunsets, smouldered but never died out. From then on, the rags of the beggars smelled to me not of bread and the dust of the road, but of gunpowder and arson. I now looked more closely at the blind men and paupers, and I realised that the special tribe to which they belonged was not merely that of the unfortunates but of gifted men of ruthless will.

‘Why have they gathered at the inn on the Braginka?’ asked Sevryuk.

‘Who knows? They gather every year,’ Trofim answered, unwillingly. ‘Have the guards been sniffing around here?’

‘No, but we’ve heard they were at Komarin yesterday,’ Sevryuk replied.

‘Oh well.’ Trofim got up. ‘Thank you. I’m going up to the hayloft for some rest.’

Trofim left, though he didn’t go to the hayloft, but out into the forest, and he only returned the following morning. Marina Pavlovna told me the story of the young boy who had been the blind man’s guide. Two days earlier, the two had walked onto the estate of a wealthy landowner named Lyubomirsky. They were driven out of the courtyard, and as they went the Ingush watchman (many wealthy landowners in those days hired Ingush men as their guards) let the wolfhound off its chain, and it ran after them. The blind man stopped, but the boy panicked and ran. The wolfhound caught the boy and killed him. The blind man had saved himself by standing absolutely still. The wolfhound just sniffed him, growled and then walked off. The peasants found the boy’s body and brought it to Pogonnoe. The boy was to be buried tomorrow.

I liked the Sevryuks. Marina Pavlovna was a magnificent rider and a crack shot. She was small, but very strong, and walked with a swift, light step. She held harsh opinions, which she expressed in a characteristic drawl, and loved to read historical novels such as Danilevsky’s Fugitives of Novorossiya.fn1 Sevryuk had the look of a sick man. He was very thin and had a mocking air about him. He ignored his neighbours, preferring the company of peasants, and kept himself busy tending to his small estate. As for the student, Marina’s brother, he spent his days hunting. In his spare time, he filled cartridges, cast shot and cleaned his double-barrelled Belgian gun.

The next day we went to the village of Pogonnoe. We took a ferry across the deep and cold Braginka. The wind rustled in the willows along the banks. On this side of the river, a sandy road ran between the edge of the forest and a swamp. The swamp stretched to the horizon, losing itself in the hazy light. Its pools of water reflected the sun like so many windows, swathes of flowers formed yellow islands, and the grey sedge could be heard bending in the wind. I had never in my life seen such enormous marshlands. Far from the road amid the luxuriant green quagmire stood a blackened, slanting cross marking the spot where a hunter had drowned many years ago.

We could hear the funeral bells coming from Pogonnoe. Our carriage drove into the empty village with its small huts, their roofs covered with rotting straw. Squawking chickens fluttered about trying to avoid the horses’ hooves. A crowd had formed in front of the wooden church. Through the open doors we could see burning candles, whose light fell on garlands of paper roses decorating the icons. As we entered the church, the crowd fell silent and parted to let us pass. The boy was lying in a narrow pine coffin, his flaxen hair carefully combed; a tall, thin candle had been placed in his bloodless hands across his chest. As it burned, the candle bent, dripping wax on the boy’s yellow fingers. A scruffy priest in a black vestment hurriedly prayed and swung the censer. I looked at the boy. He seemed to be trying to remember something but couldn’t think of it.

Sevryuk touched my arm. I turned around. He motioned with his eyes off to one side of the coffin. I looked. There the old beggars stood in a row. They were all dressed in identical brown robes, in their hands were old wooden staffs, rubbed shiny with age. Their grey heads were raised to gaze at a painting of a silver-bearded Lord of Hosts hanging over the altar. The image looked strangely like them – the same sunken, threatening eyes, the same lean, dark face.

‘The Masters!’ Sevryuk whispered to me.

The beggars stood motionless, neither crossing themselves nor bowing. The space around them was empty. Behind the beggars I could see two boys, blind men’s guides, with canvas bags on their backs. One of them was quietly crying and wiping his nose with his sleeve. The other stood there, his eyes lowered, laughing. Women sighed. Sometimes the dull rumble of men’s voices carried in from the church porch. The priest would look up and begin to pray in a louder voice. The rumble then died down. All of a sudden, the beggars moved towards the coffin, silently lifted it up and carried it out of the church. Behind them the two boys led the blind men.

The coffin was lowered into the ground at the cemetery, which was crowded with old, crooked crosses. Water had already begun to seep into the grave. The priest said a last prayer, took off his vestment, rolled it up and walked, limping, out of the cemetery. Two aged peasants spat on their hands and picked up their shovels. Just then a blind man with the face of a hawk came forward and said: ‘People, wait!’ The crowd fell silent. Feeling for the edge of the grave with his stick, he bowed over the coffin and, staring straight ahead with his white eyes, began to chant:

Under a dry willow, beside a shallow brook,

Wearied from the road, the Lord took His rest,

The people came to Him from all around,

And laid their offerings before Him on the ground.

The crowd moved closer to the blind man.

Women gave him Him honey and homespun, and girls their necklaces,

Old men gave Him black bread, old women gave Him icons,

A little girl offered Him periwinkles,

Laying them at His feet before running off

To hide behind the barn. The Lord smiled,

And then asked: ‘But who will give me his heart?

Who would not begrudge me his heart?’

A young woman in a white shawl cried softly. The blind man fell silent, turned towards her and went on:

Then a young lad brought Him his heart,

It fluttered like a dove, and he laid it in His hands.

The Lord looked and saw it was pierced and covered with blood.

It was tarnished and as black as the earth,

Blackened from tears and perpetual suffering,

From the boy’s wanderings across this earth,

Leading the blind and having never known happiness.

The beggar held his hands out in front of him.

The Lord stood and lifted this weak heart,

All-powerful He arose and cursed the unrighteousness of men.

Black clouds settled over the earth,

Thunder crashed over the forests,

And the mighty voice of the Lord rang out.

Here the blind man suddenly smiled with joy.

‘I shall bring this heart to My heavenly throne,

And keep it as a rare gift from the human race,

Before which all good souls may bow down.’

The blind man fell silent, paused for a moment, and then sang in a powerful yet muffled voice:

This orphan’s heart is richer than diamonds,

More splendid than flowers, brighter than the stars,

Because it was given by a beautiful young boy

As a humble gift to Almighty God.

The women in the crowd wiped their eyes with the ends of their dark kerchiefs. ‘Give alms, good people,’ the blind man said, ‘for the soul of Vasily, the innocent murdered boy.’ He held out his battered old cap. Copper coins were tossed in. The two men began to shovel dirt into the grave. We slowly made our way back to the church, where our horses were waiting. Marina Pavlovna walked in front. No one said a word the entire way. Only Trofim spoke. ‘People have been living on earth for thousands of years, and yet they’ve still not learned to be good. How strange.’

After the boy’s funeral, fear descended on the Sevryuks’ estate. The doors were now secured with heavy locks in the evening, and Sevryuk and the student got out of bed every night to patrol the estate with loaded guns. One night someone lit a campfire in the woods. It burned until dawn. In the morning, Trofim reported that a stranger had spent the night there. ‘Must have been one of Gon’s men,’ he added. ‘Been circling around here like wolves.’ Later that day a barefoot fellow in black army trousers with faded red piping walked onto the estate. He had his boots slung over his shoulder. His face was peeling from sunburn. His eyes were sullen and watchful. He asked for a drink. Marina Pavlovna brought him a jug of milk and a loaf of bread. The fellow gulped down the milk and then said: ‘You’re a brave lot. You’re not afraid to live in such a place.’

‘No one is going to harm us,’ said Marina Pavlovna.

‘Why’s that?’ the fellow laughed.

‘Because we don’t do any harm to anyone.’

‘Others might see it differently,’ he said, cryptically, and then left.

This encounter is why Marina Pavlovna was not pleased about Sevryuk leaving the next day for a neighbouring village to buy provisions and gunpowder. Sevryuk took me with him. We had planned to be back that evening.

I enjoyed our ride through the deserted countryside. The road ran through the marshlands and over sandy hills overgrown with small, stunted pines. The turning wheels produced a steady trickle of sand. Grass snakes slithered across the road in front of us. It was a sultry day, and we could see the hot air hanging over the swamps. In the little Jewish village, goats wandered about on the roofs of the houses and nibbled on the moss. A wooden star of David had been nailed above the entrance to the synagogue. In the square, hay littered the ground and the drowsy horses belonging to a unit of dragoons stood about. The soldiers, red-faced from the hot sun, lay on the ground near their horses. They had unbuttoned their uniforms and were lazily singing:

Soldiers, O you brave fellows, where are your women?

See here our loaded cannons? These are our women!

Their officer sat on the inn’s front porch drinking a glass of cloudy kvass. We visited the shops, called ‘vaults’. It was cool and dark inside them. Pigeons pecked at the grain in the scales. The Jewish shopkeepers in their shiny black caps complained that there was no point in trading because all their profits went in bribes to the head of the district police. They told us that the day before yesterday Andrei Gon had raided a nearby estate and made off with four excellent horses. In one of the ‘vaults’ they served us pink-coloured sweets and tea that smelled faintly of paraffin.

We were late leaving the village. Sevryuk whipped the horses, but they quickly tired in the heavy sand and could only manage a slow walk. Clouds of flies swarmed over their rumps; the horses swished feverishly with their stringy tails trying to keep them off. A thunderstorm was brewing to the south. The swamps darkened. The wind picked up, shaking the trees and carrying the smell of water. Lightning flashed, and far off in the distance the earth rumbled.

‘We’ll have to turn off and stop at the inn on the Braginka,’ said Sevryuk. ‘We’ll spend the night there. We wasted too much time back in the village.’

We turned onto an almost invisible forest road. The wheels of the carriage kept banging on the tree roots. It began to grow dark. The woods thinned out. A damp breeze met our faces, and we drove up to an inn, black against the sky’s fading light. It stood on the very banks of the Braginka under some willows. Behind it, the ground was overgrown with nettles and hemlock in the shape of tall umbrellas. From this fragrant undergrowth came the anxious clucking of chickens, frightened and seeking shelter from the approaching storm.

A stout, elderly Jew came out onto the sagging porch – this was Leizer, the innkeeper. He was wearing boots. A red sash held up his trousers, which were as baggy as a Gypsy’s. Leizer smiled sweetly and closed his eyes.

‘What a guest!’ he exclaimed, shaking his head. ‘It’s easier to find a diamond in the forest than to entice such a pleasant guest to my inn. Please, be so kind as to enter my immaculate establishment.’

Despite the sweet smile, Leizer watched us warily from under his swollen, red eyelids.

‘I know, Leizer,’ said Sevryuk, ‘that the Masters are here at the inn. Don’t worry. It’s none of our business. All sorts of folk visit the inn!’

‘What can I do?’ Leizer asked with a heavy sigh. ‘All around us nothing but forests and bogs. Can I choose my lodgers? I’m sometimes frightened of them myself, Pan Sevryuk.’

We went in. The scrubbed floorboards creaked under our steps. Over time the room had settled, and everything in it was slightly askew. A bloated, white-haired woman was sitting in a bed, propped up by pink pillows.

‘My dear mamma,’ explained Leizer. ‘She has dropsy. Dvoira!’ he shouted. ‘Get the samovar ready!’

A little woman with a sad face, Leizer’s wife, peeped out from behind a curtain and greeted us. The windows were closed because of the storm. Flies were beating themselves against the glass. A flyblown portrait of General Kuropatkin hung on the wall. Leizer brought hay for our bedding. He laid it on the floor and covered it with heavy sacking. We sat down at the table to drink our tea when all of a sudden there was a clap of thunder so heavy it made the china jump. The rain drummed on the inn’s roof with a heavy, steady beat. Grey streams poured down the dark windows illuminated now and then by bleary flashes of lightning. The downpour drowned out the hiss of the samovar. We ate rolls with our tea, which had not tasted so good in a long time. I liked the inn, and this feeling of complete isolation, the sound of the rain, the thunder in the woods. From the far side of the wall, we could just barely make out the voices of the beggars.

I was tired from the jolting of the cart and the long, hot day and fell asleep on the hay as soon as I had finished my tea. I awoke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. The heavy smell of paraffin filled the room. The night light flickered. The old woman moaned in her sleep. Sevryuk sat up next to me.

‘Let’s go and lie down in the cart or this fug will give me a heart attack,’ he said.

We tiptoed out. The cart was in a shed. We spread out some hay, lay down and covered ourselves with some sacking. The thunderstorm had passed. Stars shone in the moist air over the woods. We could hear the rain dripping off the roof. The smell of wet weeds filtered into the shed. A door creaked. Someone came out of the inn. Sevryuk whispered: ‘Keep quiet. That must be the Masters.’ Someone sat down on a log by the shed and struck a flint. There was a quick flash, followed by the smell of cheap tobacco.

‘As soon as we can see the flames, we’ll be on our way,’ said a squeaky voice. ‘Or else they’ll catch us.’

‘That’s right,’ another voice croaked. ‘We’ve stayed here at Leizer’s too long already. The Archangels are on the prowl.’

‘Nothing’s visible yet. Maybe it’s too wet from the rain to burn,’ came a third voice, younger and full of worry.

‘For Gon’s men, nothing’s too wet, or too much trouble,’ replied the squeaky voice.

‘They’ll do whatever they want,’ the croaky voice warned. ‘They’ll avenge the trouble we’ve caused. We’ll witness God’s punishment, assuming we still have eyes to see.’

The beggars fell silent.

‘Petro, is everyone ready?’ the first man asked.

‘Everyone,’ answered the young man.

‘Then tell them to come out. And don’t bother with Leizer. He’s already taken his share of the money, and his business doesn’t concern us. What about those travellers who just arrived? Are they asleep?’

‘Yes, why wouldn’t they be?’

Again the men fell silent. I stirred, and Sevryuk put his hand on my arm. A few more men came out of the inn.

‘Kuzma and I are heading for Ovruch and then on to Chernobyl,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Maybe I’ll find a new guide near Chernobyl. The people there are starving.’ It was the blind man who’d sung over the boy’s grave in Pogonnoe.

It grew quiet once more. My heart was pounding. A long time seemed to pass, and then I heard a soft voice. ‘There it is.’

The beggars started to move.

‘Well, brothers,’ said the man with the croaky voice, ‘let’s say a prayer and then be on our way.’

‘Our Father, who art in heaven,’ the beggars recited quietly, ‘hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done …’

The men rose and left.

‘What were they talking about?’ I asked Sevryuk.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’

He got up and left the shed. Suddenly, I heard his shocked voice out of the darkness.

‘What’s that? Come here, quick.’

I raced out. Beyond the young willows on the far side of the Braginka the sky was a smoky pink. Tall showers of sparks seemed to be coming from the bushes around us. The light of the fire glowed dimly on the water.

‘What’s that burning?’ asked Sevryuk.

‘That’s Lyubomirsky’s place,’ Leizer answered in the darkness next to us. We had not even heard him come up. ‘Pan Sevryuk, have pity on yourself and on a poor innkeeper,’ he begged. ‘I’ll harness your horses, and then go, go with God’s speed. It’d be best if you weren’t here.’

‘Why?’

‘The dragoons might arrive at any moment from the village, or the border guards. They can’t get anything from the innkeeper. The innkeeper didn’t say or hear anything.’

‘We didn’t see anything either,’ said Sevryuk.

‘Sir!’ Leizer pleaded. ‘I beg you in the name of your Orthodox God! Go. I don’t need your money. I just want to be left alone in peace. Don’t you see what’s happening here?’

‘Well, all right, all right,’ Sevryuk agreed. ‘You certainly are a man of weak nerves, Leizer. Go and harness the horses.’

Leizer quickly harnessed the horses, and we drove off.

The road followed the banks of the Braginka. Sevryuk dropped the reins and let the horses walk at their own pace. The flames grew higher. Wet branches slapped our faces.

‘Now I get it,’ said Sevryuk. ‘They’ve set fire to Lyubomirsky’s.’

‘Who did?’

‘I don’t know. It must be because of the boy. But you and I didn’t stay at the inn, and we didn’t see a thing. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ I said.

We heard a faint but distinct whistle from across the Braginka. Sevryuk reined in the horses. We heard it again. Sevryuk had stopped the cart by some thick undergrowth; no one could see us.

‘Hey, innkeeper!’ came a soft voice from the far bank, ‘ferry me across!’

No one answered. We kept listening. There was a splash. The man had apparently jumped into the water and was trying to swim across. Through the undergrowth we could now see him, illuminated by the faint glow of the fire. He had made it halfway and was struggling mightily against the current. The man scrambled up onto the bank not far from us. We could hear the water pouring off him.

‘Just you wait, Leizer, you’ll pay for this crossing later,’ he said and then walked off into the woods.

After the sound of his footsteps had died away, we slowly drove on.

‘Did he seem familiar?’ Sevryuk asked in a barely audible voice.

‘What?’ I asked, confused.

‘That man. Did you recognise him?’

‘No.’

‘The fellow who showed up at our place. We gave him milk. That sounded to me like his voice. Now it makes sense. The Masters must have complained to Gon, and he sent one of his men to set Lyubomirsky’s house on fire. At least that’s what I think. Leizer ferried him to the other side of the river. But don’t forget, we haven’t seen anything, and we don’t know anything.’

Sevryuk lit a cigarette, carefully shielding the match with a fold of his raincoat. The fire’s glow rose ever higher, twisting in the night sky. The river gurgled in the flooded undergrowth, the axles squeaked. Later, a cold mist rose over the marches. Wet and chilled to the bone, we didn’t arrive back at the estate until dawn.

After this incident, anxious days followed. I actually enjoyed them. I liked the constant expectation of danger, the hushed conversations, the rumours Trofim brought back about how Gon had suddenly been sighted now here, now there. I liked the cold Braginka and its reeds – certainly the hiding place for bandits – and the hoofmarks on the road that appeared mysteriously in the night. I’ll even admit I hoped Andrei Gon would make a raid on the Sevryuks’ estate, so long as he didn’t burn down the house or kill anyone. But instead of Andrei Gon, the dragoons appeared one evening at dusk. They dismounted near the gates, and their officer strode up in his dusty boots to the verandah where we were having tea. He excused himself for disturbing us and asked: ‘Are you the master here, Sevryuk?’

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Sevryuk. ‘How can I help you?’

The officer turned to his men. ‘Hey, Marchenko!’ he yelled. ‘Bring him here!’

Two dragoons brought out a bare-footed man from behind the horses. His hands were bound behind his back. He wore black soldier’s trousers with faded red piping. They led him to the verandah. He stared at Marina Pavlovna as though he wanted to tell her something.

‘Do you know this fellow?’ asked the officer.

No one said a word.

‘Take a closer look.’

‘No,’ said Marina Pavlovna, the blood draining from her face. ‘I’ve never seen this man before.’

The man shuddered and lowered his eyes.

‘And you?’ the officer asked Sevryuk.

‘No. I don’t know him.’

‘Well, my friend,’ the officer said, turning to the man, ‘it’s nothing but a pack of lies you’ve been telling us about working here on the Sevryuks’ estate. No one but yourself to blame.’

‘All right!’ the man said. ‘Take me away. But don’t think might makes right.’

Marina Pavlovna sprang out of her chair and went back inside the house.

‘That’s enough talk out of you!’ the officer said. ‘Take him away!’

The dragoons rode off. Marina Pavlovna cried for a long time.

‘The way he was looking at me,’ she said through her tears. ‘How did I not see it? I should have said that I knew him and he works here for us.’

‘How could you have guessed?’ Trofim said, trying to comfort her. ‘He could’ve at least given some sort of sign. He certainly gave it to Lyubomirsky. Burned every last thing over there down to the ground, he did, for murdering that boy.’

Soon afterwards I left for Kiev. Polesia remained in my memory as a sad and somewhat enigmatic place. It would go on growing buttercups and sweet flags, its alders and willows would still rustle in the wind, but its church bells, so it seemed, would never call the mute peasants to a joyous celebration. So I thought then. Fortunately, things turned out quite differently.