Under A Blood Red Sky Part 17

'What time is it?'

'Eight-thirty.'

'Chyort! ' '

Mikhail felt an unfocused anger rise inside him - he wasn't sure at what or at whom, but he knew somehow he had lost control and he hated his son seeing him like this. 'Pyotr,' he said sharply, 'I'll drink if and when I have a mind to. I don't need your permission, boy.'

'No, Papa.'

Mikhail rose to his feet and groaned. f.u.c.k it, this was a hangover like none he'd experienced before. His whole brain felt dislocated. He made his way out to the tub of water in the back yard, stuck his head in it and kept it there until blood reached his brain. Today he'd have to ride Zvezda hard.

His s.h.i.+rt was wet round the collar and stank of alcohol, and of something else. He sniffed the sleeve cautiously. Was it her? The scent of her skin on his arm? The sudden memory of Sofia's face in the darkness, her mouth soft and full as she whispered words to him. What words? d.a.m.n it, what words? He couldn't remember. He shook his head but nothing became clearer. Had the vodka done this or . . .? Dimly he recalled Rafik being there last night. What had the gypsy to do with it? He headed back into the house where the boy was staring out of the window.

'Pyotr,' he said gruffly, 'you know I'm like a bear with a sore head if I sleep too long. You were right to wake me. Spasibo Spasibo.'

His son continued to look out at the street, his back rigid, elbows stiff at his sides. Mikhail felt an urge to wrap his arms round his stubborn son's young frame, to hold on to it, to keep it safe and guard it from grain hunters and fire starters and slogan sellers. Instead he went into his own room, shaved, changed his s.h.i.+rt and when he came out again Pyotr was waiting for him.

'Papa, what happened last night?'

Last night. Mikhail shook his head again, trying to clear the blurring that smudged his thoughts at the very mention of last night. What did happen? And why do I feel Sofia so close? What did happen? And why do I feel Sofia so close?

'What happened to the grain and the sacks, Papa? All the piles of them that the Procurement Officers stacked in the truck. People are saying it was stolen. That you were . . . involved.'

The boy's face was tense, as if he was frightened to hear the answer. They both knew of the infamous case of the boy, Pavlik, who only last spring had reported his own father to the authorities for anti-Soviet activities and the Politburo had used it as a major propaganda tool. One of Pyotr's feet kicked again and again at the floorboards.

'No grain was taken,' Mikhail said firmly. 'There were only four sacks.'

'They say that's not true.'

'Then they're lying.'

The boy shuffled his feet.

'Pyotr, stay away from the barns today. That fire didn't light itself and Fomenko will be looking for a culprit.'

The fresh air cleared Mikhail's head. Dusty white clouds trailed along the top of the ridge on each side of him as he cantered down the dirt road, past the cedar tree that marked the village boundary and out into the valley which lay before him, sun-baked and vibrant with movement. The bushy green foliage of the potato crop rustled in the fields and stooped figures wielded hoes and rakes across the long mounds. The whole kolkhoz kolkhoz workforce was already hard at it, striving to fulfil Aleksei Fomenko's labour quotas. One thing Mikhail couldn't deny was that Fomenko had pulled and prodded and bullied the Tivil collective farm into some semblance of productivity. He might be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he was an efficient b.a.s.t.a.r.d. workforce was already hard at it, striving to fulfil Aleksei Fomenko's labour quotas. One thing Mikhail couldn't deny was that Fomenko had pulled and prodded and bullied the Tivil collective farm into some semblance of productivity. He might be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he was an efficient b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Above, a solitary skylark soared up into the brilliantly blue sky, its wings fluttering like heartbeats. Mikhail envied its effortless flight. He used to work at the N22 aircraft factory in Moscow and he missed that wonderful sense of freedom that came with flying, but freedom was a word that had no meaning these days. He wondered how Andrei Tupolev was getting on with the development of the ANT-4 aeroplane, and allowed himself a moment to indulge in the images of its corrugated Duralumin skinning, like wave ripples in the sand. And the full-throated roar of its hefty twin engines that- Abruptly Mikhail cut off the sounds in his head. Why torment himself? Those days were gone. He heeled Zvezda into a longer stride and the horse huffed through its broad nostrils, p.r.i.c.ked its ears and responded with ease. They were travelling fast, kicking up a trail of dust behind them, the valley widening out along the silver twist of the river into a flat plain dotted with clumps of pine and alder. It came as a surprise when he looked up and spotted a lone figure standing at the roadside some way ahead.

He recognised her at once, that distinctive way she had of c.o.c.king her head to one side, as if expecting something. She was watching him, one hand s.h.i.+elding her eyes. The worn material of her skirt was almost transparent in the strong sunlight and her fine fair hair ruffled round her face in the breeze. He reined Zvezda to a walk and approached with care, so as not to coat her in dust.

'Good morning, Sofia Morozova. Dobroye utro. Dobroye utro. You're a long way from home.' You're a long way from home.'

She looked up with a wide generous smile. 'That depends where home is.'

The smile was infectious. 'Are you walking all the way to Dagorsk?'

She flicked at a fat blowfly that was irritating the horse's eye. 'I was waiting for you.'

'I'm glad, because I have something to ask you.'

Mikhail slid off the saddle and landed lightly in front of her, the reins loose in one hand. The top of her head came up to the level of his lips, no higher. A good height for a woman.

'Do you know what happened to the grain last night?' he asked, aware again of how disconcertingly foggy his mind became at the mention of it.

Her eyes were an intense piercing blue, capturing his attention and holding it with their directness. But now she was looking at him strangely, as though disturbed by the question.

'You were there,' she said, s.h.i.+fting her gaze away from him and towards the village. 'You saw them.'

'That's what I don't understand.' He ran a hand through his windblown hair and found himself studying the long white curve of her neck, exposed by the way she'd tucked her silver-blonde hair behind her ear, just where it caught the sunlight. 'I was was there,' he said. 'But somehow it's all mixed up in my mind and I can't make sense of it. Pyotr claims I was drunk, and G.o.d knows I have a sledgehammer at work in my head this morning, but . . .' there,' he said. 'But somehow it's all mixed up in my mind and I can't make sense of it. Pyotr claims I was drunk, and G.o.d knows I have a sledgehammer at work in my head this morning, but . . .'

She turned to look at him expectantly.

He shook his head. 'I remember the fire, and you at the pump and a man with spectacles sweating over my best vodka but then . . .' He stepped closer. 'Just tell me, Sofia, how many sacks of grain were in the truck before everyone ran off to fight the fire?'

For a moment Mikhail thought she wasn't going to reply. Something in her eyes changed, a shutter slid down inside them. Before she even spoke, he knew she was going to lie to him. For some reason he couldn't quite understand, the thought made him feel sick.

'Mikhail, there were four sacks on the truck before the fire started and four sacks still there at the end of the night.'

He said nothing.

'Rafik is sick,' she said.

He tried to find a connection between Rafik and the truck, almost catching hold of it this time before it slipped through his fingers and vanished.

'I'm sorry to hear that Rafik is unwell,' he said.

'You don't look so good yourself.'

'That's because I need to know what went on last night. Please, Sofia, tell me.'

She looked away.

He seized her arm. The feel of it, the strength contained within its slender form, reminded him suddenly of having that same feeling at some point the previous evening, a point when he was standing close to her in the darkness, his skin touching her skin, her breath warm on his ear. But why? Where? That's when the blurring started again in his mind, like mist on the tips of a tree's branches, swaying and s.h.i.+fting so there were no clear edges. His mind s.h.i.+ed away from last night like Zvezda s.h.i.+ed at a snake.

He shook her arm. 'How many sacks, Sofia?'

'Four.'

'The truth?'

'Four.'

A stab of anger made him drop her arm and in one easy movement he swung himself back up into the saddle, but whether the anger was at her for lying or at himself for not remembering, he couldn't tell. The old leather of the saddle creaked and a small green lizard shot out from between Zvezda's hooves. The girl flicked her hair so that it sprang out from behind her ear, luminous in the clear air. All these things registered in Mikhail's head, each with a kind of indelible imprint. He knew he would not forget this moment.

Gathering the reins in one hand, and on the verge of urging the horse into a gallop, at the last second he looked down again at Sofia. And something in her held him. Something in her intent gaze, something he couldn't leave behind. He stretched out an arm. Instantly she seized it and he swept her up on to the horse behind him.

23.

At first neither spoke. Sofia leaned forward and felt the hard muscles each side of Mikhail's ribs where she rested her hands to hold on. The moment her feet lifted off the ground as she swung up on the horse, she felt the past drop from her arms like a heavy bundle of dead sticks she'd been dragging round with her, and she left them there, lying in a spiky jumble in the dirt.

She'd have to pick them up. Of course she would, she knew that. But later. Right now she felt alert, happy and alive, and all that mattered was being here on his horse. With him so close she could smell the fresh clean male scent of him and study the strong curve of the back of his head and spot how his s.h.i.+rt collar was fraying where it chafed against his skin. She wanted to wrap her arms around his body and hold herself tight against him, feeling his sun-warmed back against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to burrow inside his jacket and s.h.i.+rt, her cheek next to his naked skin, and listen to his heart beating.

Instead she held on lightly and let her own body move with the rhythm of the horse beneath her. It was travelling at a good pace. Fields of potatoes dashed past in long straight ridges as far as the eye could see, occasionally edged with a haze of clover flowers that drew the greedy bees to them. Was she a greedy bee? Drawn to her own personal flower?

But he wasn't hers. She was stealing him. An ache started up in her chest and her fingers fluttered involuntarily against his ribs, making him half turn his head to her.

'Are you all right back there?' he asked.

She could see the dark length of his eyelashes and a shadow on his jaw where he hadn't shaved well this morning.

'I'm fine. Your horse must possess a strong back to carry the two of us so effortlessly.'

Mikhail laid an affectionate hand on the horse's neck, fingers kneading the heavy muscles. 'You and I are no more than a gnat's wing to Zvezda. He's used to hauling ma.s.sive carts all day round Dagorsk.'

'For your factory?'

'No, for a Soviet haulage business. You didn't think he rested in a stall with a net of hay to chew on and a young filly to amuse him till sundown, did you?' he laughed. 'Like I'm sure Comrade Deputy Stirkhov spends his days.'

She could feel the laughter ripple under the tips of her fingers, vibrating his rib bones, and it echoed in a joyous rush through her own veins.

'Mikhail, you are too free with your insults.' She pointed up to a wood pigeon whose heavy wings flapped noisily as it swooped low over their heads. 'I expect that bird is in the pay of Deputy Stirkhov, carrying our every word back to its master.'

He laughed again and raised two fingers in an imitation gun, aiming at the pigeon.

'I mean it,' she said softly. 'You should take more care.'

He shrugged his big flat shoulder blades as if she'd laid an unwelcome weight on them. 'Of course you're right. You'd think I'd have learned by now. That's why I've washed up here in this backwater instead of . . .' His words trailed into a sigh.

'Instead of where?'

'Moscow.'

'Did you like Moscow so much?'

'I liked the Tupolev aircraft factory.'

'Is that why Rafik calls you Pilot?'

'Yes. But I was never a pilot. I'm an engineer. I worked on the engine designs and stress testing of the ANT planes.'

'That must have been exciting.'

A pause. Two dragonflies chased alongside for an iridescent second before darting back to the river.

'Yes.' That was all he said.

'Very different from a clothing factory out here in the middle of nowhere, that's certain,' she said lightly. 'Sewing machines aren't much good at flying.'

He laughed once more but this time it sounded empty. 'Oh yes, I'm well and truly earthbound these days.'

It wasn't hard to picture him soaring through the clouds, eyes bright with joy, up in the freedom of the blue sky. But she didn't ask the obvious question, made no attempt to search out the why or the how. Instead she laid her cheek against his shoulder. They rode like that in silence and she could feel the thread between them spinning tighter, drawing them together.

After several minutes, as though he could hear her thoughts, he said flatly, 'I was dismissed. I wrote a letter. To a friend in Leningrad. In it I complained that some of the equipment was agonisingly slow in arriving at the N22 factory because of incompetence, despite the fact that Stalin himself claimed to be committed to expanding the aircraft industry as a major priority.'

'Foolish,' she murmured and gently tapped his head. His hair felt soft.

'Foolish is right.' He leaned back a fraction in the saddle, so that his shoulder pressed harder against her cheek. 'I should have realised all employees in such a sensitive project would have their letters monitored. b.l.o.o.d.y idiot. It was only because Andrei Tupolev himself intervened for me that I wasn't sent to one of the Siberian labour camps. Instead I was exiled out here in, as you so aptly put it, the middle of nowhere. But I'm an engineer, Sofia, not a b.l.o.o.d.y clothes merchant.'

'You were lucky.' Sofia sat up straight once more. 'You must be careful, Mikhail.'

'I admit I've had a few run-ins with Stirkhov and his Raion Raion Committee already. I'm an engineer, and since all the big public show trials of the engineers he doesn't trust me and is always wanting to interfere.' Committee already. I'm an engineer, and since all the big public show trials of the engineers he doesn't trust me and is always wanting to interfere.'

'What show trials?'

It slipped out. She wanted to cram the words back inside her mouth.

'Sofia, you must have heard of them, everyone has. The trials of the industrial engineers. The first one was the Shakhty trial in 1928. Remember it? Fifty technicians from the coal industry. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were accused by Prosecutor Krylenko of cutting production and of being in the pay of foreign powers. Of taking food out of the mouths of the hungry ma.s.ses and of treachery to the Motherland.'

She could feel his back growing rigid.

'Everyone clamoured for the deaths of these men, who were forced into confessing incredible and absurd crimes, slavish and servile in court. They betrayed the whole engineering industry, humiliated us. Endangered us.' He paused suddenly and she wondered where his mind had veered to, but she soon found out.

It was in a totally different sort of voice that he said, 'You'd have to be blind and deaf and dumb not to know of the trials. They were a huge spectacle. Used by Stalin as propaganda in every newspaper and radio broadcast, in newsreels and on billboards. We were completely bombarded for months.' Abruptly he stopped speaking.

'I was ill,' she lied.

'Blind and deaf,' he murmured, '. . . or not in a position to read a newspaper.'

'I was ill,' she repeated.

'You can read, can't you?'

'Yes. But I had . . . typhoid fever. I was sick for months and read no newspapers.'