To the Lake

12 SICKENING

…If I open my eyes for a second, I would see that it is still dark outside, and there’s a small black window with a square of black sky above me, embellished with bright sparkles of stars, it’s still quiet and cold, very cold, I have to pull the duvet up to my chin, but my hands fail me; the square of the sky suddenly shifts, the stars move, leaving long traces, the window zooms in on me, growing bigger and bigger, and the dusty frozen attic room finally vanishes. It’s not scary at all, to lie on your back like this and look up into the winter darkness, without any thoughts, worries or fears – we’re good at it as children – to make a step away and make the world disappear by turning away from it, to turn all sounds off, fall into a snowbank with arms wide spread, to throw your head back and freeze, feeling only peace, silence and cold, the cold which isn’t dangerous, it lulls you to sleep, and you feel the planet – huge as a whale – slowly move underneath you; the planet doesn’t notice you, doesn’t know about your existence; you’re only a tiny mark, a dotted line, nothing depends on you, you can only lie on your back and be carried, pulled forward, as if on a sledge. My mum turns around and says ‘Anya, are you cold? Hang on in there, we’ll be home soon.’ You can’t see her face, you can only see the moving sky above you – it moves with you, only slower than you; even if I open my eyes it still moves, and the darkness and cold are still there; the cold that doesn’t leave you.

I resurface for a moment – Sergey isn’t there; I’m still on the dusty, damp ottoman-bed, the silent clutter surrounding it, the hard springs stick into my back; I have no energy to move. It’s cold, I’m thirsty. The zip from the sleeping bag scratches my cheek and I struggle to keep my eyes open – every time, making an effort to open my eyes I see that the walls are an inch closer and the ceiling is lower, and even though the sky and the stars are back within the window square, if I look closer I can see the window shaking, the sky pushing on the glass from outside, which swells under its weight, and it feels like it’s going to break through it and swallow me. Perhaps that’s how a house tries to get rid of an intruder – by sending nightmares and dark anxiety dreams, intertwined with the angry groans of the wind in the chimneys, every unfamiliar smell or sound, given off by this disturbed house which belongs to somebody else. All the old things, the walls and squeaky stairs stay faithful to their owners, even if they had left the house and will never come back; you can pretend not to notice this hostility, this protest against your intrusion and not to feel the attempts to purge you out of the house, but as soon as you fall asleep, you become vulnerable and cannot hide from those weird dreams.

When I opened my eyes again, everything had disappeared – the black sky in the window square, the creaks and the groans; the things stopped moving and the walls stopped approaching me – through the small window near the ceiling I saw a dim, bleak winter sunrise illuminating the dusty, cluttered attic which had scared me so last night but looked so ordinary in daylight. It was all back to normal again, but the cold and thirst were still there – sitting up on the bed I sat still for a few moments, gathering strength to stand up – I just needed to leave this place, to go downstairs, into the warmth, to eat something hot, and I’ll feel better straight away. I laced up my boots – my fingers wouldn’t obey me and the laces kept slipping out of them. I draped my jacket over my shoulders and went downstairs.

Andrey was dozing on the veranda, wrapped in his warm coat and hiding the lower part of his face in the collar; Sergey’s gun was standing against the wall. The windows were so frozen up that you couldn’t see through them – while we were asleep some giant hand had uprooted the house from the ground and drowned it in milk. When he heard me coming, Andrey stirred, lifted his head and nodded to me:

“It was cold as hell last night,” he said and yawned; next to him, on the windowsill was a steaming cup of tea, which was slowly melting the frosty crust on the window. “Go inside, get warm. We’re lucky it’s overcast today – nobody’ll notice the smoke from the road, so we can build up the fire to our hearts’ content.”

The stark whiteness, which surrounded the veranda, dazzled me, but the house itself was still plunged in semidarkness, and even though we removed some of the boards covering the windows, there was still not enough light coming through the narrow cracks, so I had to stop at the entrance for my eyes to get used to the darkness. There was a beguiling smell of fresh coffee.

“Close the door,” I heard Ira’s voice from somewhere. “The kids will get cold.”

“How are you?” Sergey came up to meet me. “I didn’t want to wake you, seemed you didn’t sleep well last night, you were so restless. Come and eat something.”

I immediately felt nauseous at the thought of food.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “The bed’s awful, my whole body’s aching. I got so cold up there, I’ll sit near the stove for a bit and eat later, ok?”

I didn’t even want to take my jacket off – as if the cold, which had been torturing me all night, had crept under my skin, into my bones, my spine, and I knew if I removed my jacket I would only let the cold out and it’d fill the entire space, pushing out every bit of warm air that was stored in this small room – through the cracks in the window frames, and then I’d never be able to get warm again. I pressed my shoulder to the brick wall of the stove – with no fear of scalding or burning myself. If I could, I would lie down on the floor, near the open furnace, like a dog, so as not to miss any heat it produced; I couldn’t understand why this wretched stove wasn’t getting any warmer.

“What do you mean, you’re not hungry?” Sergey asked. “You didn’t eat all day yesterday. C’mon, sit at the table. Mishka, make her a cup of tea. Anya, do you hear? Take your jacket off, it’s hot in here.”

I won’t budge, I thought, kneeling down next to the stove, the rough brick lightly scratching my cheek, I need to get warm, let me stay here, I don’t need any tea, just leave me alone.

“Anya!” Sergey repeated, sounding cross. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” I said, closing my eyes, “I’m just cold, I’m really cold. I’m not going to eat, I just want to get warm.”

“Did you say your whole body ached?” Ira asked harshly, and her unpleasant tense voice ripped me out of my sleepy oblivion, which had started enveloping me with its thick dull blanket, as if I had forgotten about something and was just about to remember what it was. I forced my eyes open – the room was blurry and shaky – and saw Sergey, who rose from his seat, and Mishka with a mug of hot tea in his hand, walking towards me, and behind them – Ira’s face which looked like a white exclamation mark, twisted with fear. It was her face that made me jump to my feet – so fast that I felt dizzy – as if somebody had bellowed into my ear; I caught a chair with my elbow and it crashed to the floor, making a lot of noise.

“Don’t come near me!” I shouted to Mishka, and he stood still – so suddenly that a large splash of the hot tea he was holding fell on the floor; he didn’t understand anything, nor did Sergey, who hadn’t made a step towards me yet and stood looking at me, with a concerned, puzzled look. “Don’t come near me, any of you,” I repeated. I covered my mouth with both hands, and started walking backwards, walking until I bumped into the wall. And while I was walking the only person I was looking at was Ira, holding a tea towel to her face with one hand and covering the face of the boy sitting next to her with the other.

It was dusty and dark in the tiny box of a room – the light was barely seeping through the cracks in the boards covering the windows; there was no lamp, no candle. In the corner, under the window, there was a narrow bed with Natasha’s crumpled sleeping bag, and on the floor was a sports bag with piles of clothes which I tripped over while retreating from the central room – holding my hands to my mouth, holding my breath, as if even the air I was breathing out was poisonous and dangerous for the others. The only advantage of this small messy room was a sturdy metallic latch on the door which was screwed to the frame with four large screws. The wooden door was cracked, sagged and it was impossible to close it properly, let alone click the latch; I broke a nail and scraped some skin on my fingers before I managed to close both the door and the latch and only then felt that the last drops of energy were leaving me, escaping like air from a punched wheel. I couldn’t take another step and collapsed on the floor. As soon as I did it the door handle moved.

“Open the door, Anya,” Sergey said from behind the door. “Don’t be silly.”

I didn’t answer – not because I didn’t want to, but because in order to utter a word I had to lift my head, push the air out of my lungs – thank god it’s warm here, the small stove had already gone out but it was still warm, I must make an effort and reach the bed, it’s only about five steps away, no more, it can’t be so difficult, I’ll sit here for some longer and then try to get there – I don’t have to walk, I can crawl on all fours, and then push myself up on my hands and finally lie down; the main thing is not to lie down here, by the door, because if I lie down here I won’t be able to get up. There was some fussing behind the door, but I heard the voices as if through cotton wool. At first they sounded just like meaningless noise, and gradually, after a bit, I was able to make out some separate words:

“Open the door. We need to air the house – quick! Anton, come here, put your coat on.” That’s Ira.

“It’s impossible, we were together all the time.” That’s Sergey.

“What’s all the shouting? What happened?” That’s Andrey.

“Pack your things, we can’t stay here.” That’s Ira again.

“But our stuff’s there, in that room!” That’s Natasha.

They kept talking, over each other and the words they were saying slowly blurred into even, constant noise. When I was little I used to shut my eyes tight and hold my breath and then put my head under water in a bath, with my toes against its slippery sides, my mum walking down the corridor from the kitchen to check on me – ten steps – I’m holding my breath and counting one, two, three, four – I can hear her footsteps better under water – nine, ten – she’s here now. Anya, you’re diving again, come on, it’s time to wash your hair – mum’s voice is muffled, it’s calm and warm under water, but I’m running out of air in my lungs, I need to come up. I need to come up.

I probably fell asleep – not for long, for a few minutes, or maybe for half an hour, when I opened my eyes again it was quiet behind the door. Something had changed – at first I didn’t understand what it was: the room was flooded with bright dazzling light – somebody had taken the boards off the window and I was surprised to see how big it was – I could clearly see every crack in the wooden floor boards, piles of rubbish in the corners, leftover tape on the windows and dead flies on the window sill from the previous summer, wood chips and ash in front of the small stove, a faded stripy mattress on the bed; I was still sitting on the floor and slowly looking around at every detail of the room I was in. The door was securely locked and I wasn’t afraid anymore – almost indifferently I thought that it’d be here, in this tiny, strange room with a funny tear-off calendar on the wall where time stopped on September 19th, that I’d die.

Not once during these last, terrible weeks since the city was shut down and I learnt that my mum wasn’t there anymore, when we watched the news with footage of deserted, dying cities, and later, when we drove past them and saw people pulling sledges with their dead relatives along the snowy streets to the sound of rhythmical, resounding metal ringing of a bell; and even afterwards, when we met those grim people in rusty sheepskins on an empty woodland track – not once during that whole time did it occur to me that I – I, Anya,– can die. It was as if the epidemics, and our rushed escape from home, and the exhausting journey chock-full of dangers – and even what happened to Lenny – all this was like a computer game – realistic and scary but still a game – where you could always go back and cancel your last several wrong moves. What did I do wrong? When did I make a mistake – the time when I took off the mask to speak to the kind security guard or yesterday, in the woods, when I jumped right into the arms of the smiley stranger in a fox fur hat?

I struggled to stand up, feeling dizzy with ears ringing, and came up to the window, pressing my forehead to the cold window and breathed on it to look outside. The window overlooked the inner yard – I could see the sauna with its door slightly open and the path of footprints in the deep snow, leading from the sauna to the house. There wasn’t a soul outside, and it was just as quiet in the house – I even thought for a second that while I was asleep, the others had quickly packed, thrown their things into the car and left, leaving me behind. It couldn’t be true, of course, but I needed to occupy my mind with something – anything, only not to fall through into the soporific, deadening drowsiness, which was beginning to envelop me again. I desperately wanted to lie down, cover myself with a sleeping bag, close my eyes and fall asleep – but the door was locked, I couldn’t hear anyone talking outside and somehow I knew that if I fell asleep, I’d definitely miss the moment when Sergey would break through that door and I wouldn’t have time to stop him.

Don’t sleep, I kept telling myself, just get scared already, come on, you’re dying, you’ll live for three, maybe four more days, and then you’ll die, just like she said – delirium, convulsions, foam, – come on, be scared! Only these words didn’t have any effect on me. I caught myself sitting on the windowsill with my eyes shut, and to wake up, I made myself think: they’ve gone. And if I opened the window and poked my head out I’d still be able to see their cars, slowly moving away, falling through the snow – I’d be able to see them drive to the end of the street, and then they’d disappear round the corner, and to my last breath I wouldn’t see another human face. For some time, I’d probably be able to throw more kindling into the stove but then there’d definitely be a moment when I wouldn’t be able to get up so I’d lie in bed, in the cooling house, and would probably freeze before this virus had a chance to kill me. This scenario seemed so unreal, so untrue, I wondered, indifferently, what would be better – to freeze in my sleep or to die in convulsions, with blooded foam coming from my throat? I breathed on to the window again and saw Mishka, who stood still outside my window – as soon as I opened my eyes he jumped up, clinging to the window casing and with a light banging of his feet on the wall, pressed his face against the window from the other side so that I could see him through the little thawed spot. Only then did I finally become deeply scared.

We could probably talk – it was easy to hear each other through the thin window glass – but somehow neither of us uttered a word. He kept looking at me, tense and maybe even cross – for a few minutes I was looking at his thin, concerned face and then began to stroke the glass, and he immediately frowned and blinked several times, so I quickly masked my sentimental gesture by pretending that I was clearing out the frost on the window to see him better. I said, Mishka, where’s your hat again, how many times must I tell you, come on, go back to the house and find your hat, your ears will fall off; and he jumped down and started walking on the firm footpath, walking around the corner of the house, looking back once, and I waved at him ‘go, go!’, although I wasn’t sure that he could still see me. I started crying only after he disappeared round the corner.

Somebody pulled the door handle again.

“Hey,” Sergey called quietly. “Are you crying in there?”

“I am,” I admitted and came up closer to the door.

“And you won’t open the door?”

“No, I won’t.” I said.

“Well it’s up to you,” he said, “if that makes you feel better. But I’m not going anywhere, you know that, don’t you?”

“Don’t go,” I said, and started crying again, and repeated: “Don’t go.” I sat down on the floor by the door so not to miss any word he was going to say.

He said that both Ira and I were crazy alarmists; that it couldn’t be the virus because we were together the whole time and none of those few people we had met were ill. He said, you were very tired and got cold during the night, it’s a simple head cold. We have honey and medicines, he said, I found a jar of raspberry jam in the house, and I’ll start the sauna for you, he said, and in a couple of days you’ll be well. I won’t let you in anyway, I said. Well, you’re a fool, he said without a break. They’ve found one more house with a stove two houses down from this one and they’re moving their stuff at the moment. And when it becomes warm there, they’ll take Lenny there as well. They’re all going to move there – including Mishka, there won’t be anyone left in this house, just you and I, and even if you and Ira are both right – although you’re not right, I’m sure – but if you are right and you really did catch the virus, then I’m infected too, think about it, and there’s no point in locking this wretched door. We don’t know for sure, I said, we can’t know for sure. You’ll be cold soon, he said, the stove has probably stopped already, and you don’t know how to start it. You’ll need water, and then you’ll need the toilet, he said, so you will have to open it. Promise me, I said, promise that you won’t break the door, that you’ll put on a mask and stay there, and if I need to come out, you’ll be at a safe distance and won’t come close to me. That’s silly, he said. If you can’t promise that, I won’t say another word. I promise, he said. I promise, you stupid fool, I won’t break the door and won’t come in, I’ll put a mask on, but let me rekindle the fire and give you some water. Later, I said. I’m not cold anymore and I’m not thirsty. More than anything else I want to sleep, I said, I so desperately need some sleep, will you stay with me, while I’m asleep? Go to sleep, he said, I’m here.

And I slept – all day until evening, until it became dark outside. I had a light, troubled sleep: first I was hot, then cold, then hot again, and in between I woke up and kicked the sleeping bag off, or pulled it up to my chin, but throughout the whole time I knew he was near, behind the door, and sometimes I’d wake up and say, are you here? just to hear him say yes, and then ask me, are you finally cold, and to tell him, no, I’m fine, it’s still warm enough here, I’ll sleep some more, ok? Once or twice somebody knocked on the door from outside, it could have been Dad or Mishka, and he would come out onto the veranda – I heard the front door slam and forced myself to stay awake until he’d come back. When it got dark he came up to the door and said that he’d brought me some tea with raspberry and honey and that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and I must open the door to let him come in and restart the stove. I’ve got a mask on, he said, open the door, you can come out of the room and wait in the veranda, I’ll call you. Get away from the door, I said and wanted to get out of bed – it was hard, I felt dizzy and my knees were shaking, I couldn’t find that wretched latch in the dark and was scared that I wouldn’t be able to find the door until morning, but finally I found it and opened it; he stood in the furthest corner of the room, as he promised, the mask concealing his face, but his eyes told me he got scared when he saw me, I turned away and walked as fast as I could to the front door. A few minutes later he called me – when I came back to the room the fire was burning in the stove, and another sleeping bag was on the bed, and on the floor there was a big, steaming mug with tea. This is your sleeping bag, isn’t it, I asked, locking the door, – don’t worry about it, he said, I found more blankets, I’m fine, have your tea and go to bed, I’ve left you some wood on the floor, put some more into the stove when you wake up again, I’ll be here if you need me. How’s Lenny, I asked, falling asleep. You won’t believe it, he’s much better, he said, he’s trying to get up, wants food, we’ve hardly managed to persuade him to lie still, looks like he’s been lucky, he asked to say hi to you, do you hear? he said ‘Anya and I will be ill for a couple of days but then we’ll be ready to go’. You’ll have to wait a few days until I die, I thought, but I didn’t say it; it’s good that Lenny can’t be moved yet, and you’re all waiting here, in this god-forsaken summer cottage, losing precious time not just for my sake – and fell asleep again.

Next time I woke at dawn – although it wasn’t properly dawn, just the sky, which had been jet-black, became dark blue and I could see the outlines of the objects in the room – the bed, the stove, the mug on the floor, the door. I had a terribly sore throat, and I took a few sips of the cold tea. Then I threw a log into the stove – the logs had nearly finished burning – and placed the cup on top, to warm it up. The toilet was outside – I carefully opened the door, trying not to make any noise and poked my head out. The big stove had almost gone out – the coals were glistening with red, their light revealed Sergey, sleeping on the bed, which we gave to Ira and children yesterday. His pose was visibly uncomfortable, the blanket crumpled up. I covered my face with my sleeve and tiptoed to the front door.

The frost burnt me straight away, on the veranda, before I even came out into the cold. Summer cottages are not the most comfortable places to die in, I thought, and couldn’t help smiling at this thought: no heating, outdoor toilet – it doesn’t matter how ill you are, you have to do everything outside; sooner or later I’ll have to ask him to bring me the bucket, because I won’t have the energy to come out, and then I’ll probably be unable to get out of bed, what will I do then, but perhaps I won’t need the toilet by that stage. I hope I won’t, convulsions are probably painful, she said that ‘some are unlucky and they stay conscious the whole time’, and what if I’m lucky, what if I have the fever, the delirium and those wretched convulsions, then I won’t be able to stop him, he’ll definitely break in, and a mask won’t protect him, damn it, even if I’m unlucky, who can guarantee that I won’t chicken out when I feel really bad, that I won’t call him for help? Maybe out of fear, and maybe out of weakness for some time I couldn’t make another step and stood still on the veranda, holding on to the side of the door – my heart was pounding in my throat, not letting me breath in, and my whole body started pouring sweat which froze on my temples and down my spine within seconds; I need to come right out of the house, it would be ridiculous to freeze to death here, in the doorway. I found a torch on the window sill, pushed the door and came out. It was much darker outside than it seemed from inside the house; I missed the path and immediately sank in the snow up to my knee. It’s so cold, I thought, I need to open my eyes, don’t sleep, I told myself, it’d be even more ridiculous to freeze to death in the toilet, open your eyes, you need to go back to the house, don’t sleep, you mustn’t fall asleep now. My throat was so sore, it felt like I had bits of broken glass there, I felt dizzy; it’s so dark, and the damn torch only lights up a tiny bit of snow under my feet, the main thing is not to miss the path, and if I fall through the snow again, I won’t have enough energy to climb out, I mustn’t fall, keep going forward, one step, another step – I have to stick to the path and it’ll bring me back to the house, don’t sleep, you mustn’t sleep, open your eyes.

But the path led me to the gate instead of the door – I only realised this when I bumped into it with my chest and dropped the torch – it was still glowing under the snow, and it looked as if somebody was reading under a duvet with a flashlight; I bent down and plunged my hand into the snow – my fingers went numb and I had to put the torch under my arm, so as not to drop it again. It’s a very small plot, I told myself, you can’t get lost here, if you walk ten steps back, you’ll be back at the house, don’t worry, just turn around and walk back. There was no latch on the gate, just a frozen loop made of twisted wires, attached to the pole. Suddenly I realised that holding the torch under my arm I was meticulously undoing the wire with both hands, and it almost didn’t even surprise me – I couldn’t feel my fingers anyway but the loop suddenly gave and the gate opened. There was no point taking hold of the torch, I would drop it straight away, so I leant slightly forward to light the ground, still holding the torch under my arm and saw the rut from our cars, and started walking along the rut; if I stay in the rut, he won’t be able to find me, he’ll wake up much later and it won’t occur to him to start looking for me, he’ll think I’m asleep, so I have time, it’s so simple, why didn’t I think about this before, no convulsions, no foam, they say it doesn’t hurt at all when you freeze – you just fall asleep and feel nothing. I think I should find a place somewhere outside – there are such huge snowbanks around the corner, I’ll just sit down and close my eyes and wait for a bit, but why it is still so cold, so unbearably, terribly cold, how can you fall asleep when you’re so cold?

I opened my eyes – the torch which I was still holding under my armpit, was directing its light diagonally upwards, and wasn’t lighting my way. I should turn it off, I thought, or bury it in the snow, and then I’ll hide my hands inside my sleeves and try to fall asleep. Suddenly I felt somebody’s presence – it wasn’t a sound, it was more like a hint of a sound, a shadow of a sound – I lifted my head but saw nothing, and I had to take the torch from under my armpit, squeeze it with both of my hands and direct the torch right in front of me. He stood on the path just a few steps away from me – a big yellow dog, with long legs and straggly fur, and stared at me. The weak light of the torch reflected in his eyes for a second – flashing green – dazzled by the light the dog twitched, but didn’t run away.

“You’re not going to eat me now, are you?” I asked; my voice was husky and unrecognisable. The dog didn’t move.

“You’ll have to wait until I freeze,” I said. “Do you hear? And until I do, don’t even think of coming closer.” He stood still and just watched me, without any interest or aggression, as if I was an object, something like a tree or a pile of snow.

“Don’t come near me,” I said again. It was rather silly of me to talk with my painful throat, let alone talk with a dog, but there was nobody here, just him and me, and I was really cold and really really scared.

“You know what,” I said. “Don’t eat me at all. Even if I freeze to death. Agreed?” The dog impatiently shifted from one foot to another. He had large paws with long, dark nails, like a wolf’s, only they were covered in light, curly fur.

“They’ll be looking for me,” I said, trying to catch his eye. “And if you… we don’t know which one of them will find me, you see?” He made a step towards me and stopped.

“Go away,” I said to him. “Let me do what I need to do.”

If he’s going to stay here, I won’t be able to sleep, I thought, and I’ll feel just as cold, and I won’t be able to bear it for much longer, I must make him go away, shout or throw something at him.

“Go away.” I tried shouting but only managed a whisper. I lifted my hand and waved the torch towards him – he narrowed his eyes but didn’t move. “Please go, it’s hard enough without you being here, if you only knew how cold I am, I won’t be able to stand it much longer and will have to run back, and I really have to stay here, please go.” I felt my tears – angry, helpless, hot tears – run down my cheeks, and then he came up close to me; he didn’t bite or lick me, just brought his muzzle, his large hairy head, and breathed hotly into my face.

“Damn!” I said. “Damn, damn, damn!” and hit the snow helplessly. “I can’t do it. I can’t do even this!” I closed my eyes to stop the tears streaming; then I got up and went towards the house, lighting my way with the torch.

The dog followed me.

It was only a few days later that we all understood that I wasn’t going to die – those days blurred into one and got muddled up in my memory, turning into one endless dull dream where my body switched from being hot to cold, then thirsty to nauseous. Sometimes I saw the ceiling and the walls homing in on me again, like on that night in the attic, and it seemed that I only needed to close my eyes and the room would shrink to a microscopic size and crush me; but at other times I could see that everything was in its place again, dreamy indifference replaced fear, and I was lying with my eyes open, looking at a zip tag from a sleeping bag near my cheek or a pile of wood chips on the floor near the stove.

One thing I knew for sure – Sergey was in my room well before we realised I wouldn’t die; I opened my eyes and saw him sitting next to me on my bed, supporting my head with one hand and pressing a mug to my lips with the other. He didn’t have a mask on but neither of us spoke of being cautious again partially because there was no point in it anymore. Throughout the whole time I believed I was dying – and then when it became clear it wasn’t going to happen – I was thinking of one thing: both Sergey and I had each made a decision at some point. He had taken his mask off and come into the room and I had come back into the house and had let him do it and stay with me.

This is why three days later, when the exhausting fever started to go down and I could sit in bed and hold a cup of tea, I didn’t ask him a single question, I just couldn’t, because if I’d asked him anything, if I’d just spoken to him during these first few hours when we realised I wouldn’t die, I would definitely have said it out loud. That’s why the whole time he sat next to me on the bed – readjusting my pillow, watching me, telling me I was going to be ok, that my temperature was down, – ‘you’re getting better, Anya, I told you, you won’t die’, – when he was smiling, and jumping to his feet to get me something and pacing the floor, and sitting next to me again to check if my forehead was hot – all that time I was sitting in bed sipping hot tea, not saying a word, and trying not to look him in the eye. Then somebody scratched on the door from the other side and Sergey said, Anya, you’ve got visitors, you probably can’t remember, you let him in last night, and now he keeps coming in and lying on the floor in your room, sometimes he disappears for a few hours but always comes back, and I don’t even close the gate anymore – I turned my head and saw him – his fur was completely yellow, like a lion’s, and his eyes were yellow, too, like amber; I’d never seen eyes like this in a dog. He simply came in and sat on the floor – very straight – and stared at me with his yellow eyes, and I stared at him, until I realised that I could finally talk again.

We never found out what my illness was – was it a virus, deadly for so many people but sparing me for some reason, or was it just the result of stress, several sleepless nights and hypothermia? That’s why during the next couple of days nobody dared come and see me, even Mishka. I wouldn’t let him anyway – I could make this kind of decision again now that I knew I wasn’t going to die.

During those days Sergey and I would spend hours in front of the fire – he moved my bed to the central room, where the big stove was – and we sat in silence, like two old people who had lived together for such a long time that they had nothing more to say to each other. This was so very unlike us in our ‘previous’ life – we had never been silent for so long during our time together – that every now and then Sergey or I would start a conversation about something insignificant, something not worth talking about, just not to be silent; these were strange conversations with lots of awkward pauses and clumsy attempts to suddenly change the subject because no matter what we talked about – and we had a lot of time for this and nowhere to rush – we ended up running into the same wall – thick and impenetrable, which made us stumble over our words and look away. It turned out that we were completely unready to remember details of that previous life that we left behind and couldn’t go back to, and people who we’d known during that time; perhaps that’s why we both wanted to end this forced reclusion, this pause in the middle of our journey which none of us had foreseen, as soon as we possibly could.

Sometimes there was a knock on the door and Sergey would drape his jacket over his shoulders and poke his head out. Sometimes it was Dad or Mishka, but none of them would come up to the veranda, they’d speak to Sergey through the window glass. They would share their news with us and we were really grateful – not because they were telling us something very important but because these unexpected visits would give us at least some kind of topic for conversation; coming home, Sergey would say, smiling: ‘These guys are amazing, Anya, who would have thought, a maths professor and a schoolboy, they’ve teamed up and broken into every house around here, climbed into somebody’s cellar and stolen a year’s stock of home-made jam, some other preserves, tinned food, diesel and even a gas chainsaw’. I was sure that he was dying to join them in those ‘raids’, to do something instead of sitting by my side for several days in a semi-dark stuffy house, but before I could persuade him to go off and help them he’d start making himself busy – he’d clean the rifles, start the fire in the stove or start cooking. Whatever he did, I was trying not to lose sight of him; ‘get some sleep Anya, you need to sleep a lot,’ he would say, lifting his eyes towards me, but I couldn’t sleep deeply during those days, I could only manage light, interrupted doze, as if I was worried that I’d wake up and find out that I was on my own and he wasn’t with me anymore.

When I finally managed to get up and walk a bit without holding the wall, Sergey heated the sauna for me; blissfully closing my eyes I lay on the bottom shelf in the dark steam room which smelt of heated resin of the wood and listened to the sound of the water bubbling on the hot stones, and with every careful breath that I took, which filled my lungs with burning steam, with every droplet of perspiration on my skin, I felt the fear which had taken such a strong hold on me during the past days, disappearing; then I got up and Sergey threw a bucket of warm water from the well over me which was unbelievably refreshing: it washed off two sleepless, anxious days of travel and the five days filled with horror that followed them; the water took it all away, down through the cracks in the floor boards. When we came out of the sauna – hot, with damp hair – the dog sat outside, near the entrance, motionless and indifferent, like a sphinx. He didn’t even look our way. “Do you think it’s his house? Is this why he came here? Maybe he used to live here?” I asked Sergey, while we were running back to the house. “Who?” Sergey asked, not sure he knew what I was talking about. “C’mon, quick, your hair’s wet.”

“The dog, that’s who,” I said, trying to look back to see if he was following us, but Sergey hurried to close the door, saving us from freezing cold.

“I doubt it,” he said, when we were inside. “There’s no kennel. Why does it matter? Go and dry your hair.”

“It’s just strange,” I muttered, obediently covering my head with a towel. “Where did he come from? There’s nobody here. Where does he sleep and gets his food?”

“I don’t know about earlier,” Sergey said, laughing. “But I do know where he slept and ate in the last couple of days. Have some rest, and I’ll go and get you a clean jumper.”

The house everyone moved into, terrified of my illness, was even smaller: there were two tiny rooms and a small, narrow kitchen which only had room for a wobbly table and several stools. In the middle of the house there was a huge brick stove, the same as we had in our house, warming the whole space; it was plastered, and its dirty-white bumpy surface was covered in cracks and soot. The rest of the space was taken by beds – mismatching, metal beds with sagging mattresses. There were too many of them – some were clearly moved here from other houses. After the frosty air outside it seemed there was no oxygen inside that house – so stuffy, dusty and dry it was there, and my throat started rasping; my God, I thought, this is just like an overnight shelter for the homeless, nine people in two rooms, this was probably what a Victorian orphanage looked like, or a concentration camp. How could you live here, in this stuffy, congested, dusty place, amongst all this clutter? One surely couldn’t stand this for long. Marina and Lenny weren’t there; Andrey lay facing the wall, with a rolled up sleeping bag under his head, and didn’t even look at us when we came in. I glanced at Natasha’s tense, hostile back, and looking slightly left my eyes bumped into Ira, who sat sideways at the top of the bed watching the children play on the floor by the stove. I froze at the door fighting my cough – everyone was busy talking and didn’t notice us come in – but I didn’t dare make another step, maybe because there was not much room or maybe because I expected them to ask me to leave. These people, most of whom I hardly knew, could have no reason to trust what Sergey and I already knew: that I was not going to die. It was an inexplicable, irrational panic attack – I suddenly wanted to turn around and run out into the air, to the wobbly snowman standing in the middle of the garden, a sole witness to how glum, unbearable and deadly boring these four days had probably been for those who hadn’t been occupied either with their own death, like me or Lenny, or with the content of neighbouring houses and basements, like Dad or Mishka. When I stood at the door I tried to imagine for the first time what our life was going to be like at the lake – staying together until the end of the winter in a small house like this one, without water, without electricity and toilet, without books and favourite programmes on telly but, most importantly, with no chance to be alone, just the two of us.

“…and I’m saying we should look again.” It looked as if we had come in while they were arguing about something because Natasha’s voice sounded both persistent and irritated, “There are fifty houses around here, maybe even more, there’s probably a better one!”

“Natasha, they’re all the same,” Andrey said, “it’s just that some of them have stoves and some don’t, it’s not a proper village, it’s a summer cottages village near Cherepovets, for goodness sake, do you really think we’re going to find a decent house here with an en suite bathroom and satellite TV?”

“You don’t know for sure,” she said hotly and turned to us half way; her cheeks were glowing. “You’ve been out of the house twice in four days, I’m sure we could find something better than this!”

“Why are you all inside?” Sergey asked from behind my back; his voice made me jump, because I completely forgot that he was standing behind me. “I thought we agreed that one of us should stay outside to watch the road?”

“Oh come on, Sergey,” Andrey waved his hand dismissively, “there’s no life in this village. Not even a dog has run past in four days.”

I noticed some movement in the corner of the room – throwing back his sleeping bag dishevelled and sleepy Mishka jumped out of bed and started lacing up his boots.

“I’ll watch the road,” he said gladly and smiled at Sergey and me. “Mum, you can sit on my bed.”

When the door closed behind him I looked around – there really was nowhere else to sit; squeezing past the other beds, I headed towards the corner.

“You don’t look well, Anya,” Natasha said in a changed voice. “Boris said you felt better – have you really recovered now? You look so pale…”

“She’s fine,” Sergey cut her off. “It was just a cold, and I haven’t come down with anything, there was no need to worry.”

As if any of you really were worried, I thought, settling on Mishka’s crumpled, uncomfortable bed, and caught myself nearly saying it aloud – what’s wrong with me, I never said things like this aloud, I always say them to myself. Fat chance you were worried about me. How you rushed to escape from the house, only concerned about leaving your precious bag with your bits and pieces; if I look up now – I bet you anything – you’ll still be looking at me as if I’ve got the plague, as if to stay in the same room with me is dangerous. During those four days none of you came to check on us, just Dad and Mishka, just family; it’d be good to start a coughing fit right now, one of those that I’ve been suffering from during the last few days, bending me over, not letting me take a breath. I’d quite like to look at your faces if I started coughing right now – covering my face with my hands, I would have a prolonged, horrible coughing session, and some of you might even run out of the room. The mattress made a pitiful squeaky noise underneath me and sagged almost to the floor. I can’t believe they let him sleep on this awful bed – the narrowest, the most unstable, I wonder if any of you checked if he had anything to eat, if he’s warm enough in this corner, under the window. I’ll take him back to the big house today, and you can stay here, in this shelter for the homeless; it’s good that I didn’t die, I can take care of him myself now. I was surprised how fast the awkwardness which I felt when we came in was replaced by a blind rage I was barely able to conceal – who would have thought that the first strong emotion, as soon as I found out that I wasn’t going to die, would be rage? I suddenly realised that I hadn’t hugged Sergey yet or touched my son, and now I’m sitting here, on this sagged old bed, and can’t look up or else they’d see my expression.

I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I probably missed a lot of the conversation they were having when we came in – when I finally managed to do something about my outraged face and lifted my head I only heard bits of Sergey talking – his voice sounded surprised and confused at the same time, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying; Natasha answered him:

“It’ll be better this way, Serge,” she always called him that, so unceremoniously and as if this was his usual name; when we met it took me a year to learn to say his name – I still can’t say it sometimes; I would give him a thousand pet names but I still found it hard to say his name and she said ‘Serge’ as if they went to school together. I looked at her more carefully – she sat with one leg underneath her, her chin slightly up, and looked at him. Her tone was patronisingly patient, as if she was talking to a child: “We’ve been here for five days and haven’t seen anyone yet. There’s nobody here, you see? It’s safe here.”

“It’s safe? Here?” echoed Sergey. “Ten kilometres from the city? Don’t make me laugh. Andrey, tell her…”

“I don’t know, Sergey,” said Andrey without looking at him, and shrugged his shoulders. “I think it’s quite a good place to sit it out.”

“To sit it out?” repeated Sergey again; I could tell by his voice that he’s beginning to get cross. “To sit out what? For how long? We don’t even know what’s going on in Cherepovets! Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week there could be dozens, or even hundreds of people here!”

“We saw what’s been happening in the cities,” Natasha said. “People were already ill a week ago, and in another week’s time there’ll be nobody left there.”

“How do you know?” he almost shouted but managed to calm down and continued in a different voice: “Ok, let’s assume that nine tenths of the population in the city will die, but think about it, Natasha, there’re three hundred thousand people there. A hundred people coming here will be enough to make our life difficult, and there’ll be thousands, you see? It’s a miracle that they haven’t come here yet. You can walk to Cherepovets from here, that’s how close it is. We should go to the lake.”

The door to the other room opened and we saw Marina – her glamorous ski suit was immaculately white again, but the hair was messy; you washed the blood off your clothes, I thought, but you didn’t wash your hair. I wonder what you’ve been doing during these four days? – did you sleep by his side, looking at his face while he was asleep, listening to his breathing, praying ‘please don’t die, don’t leave me’, or did you spend this time making sure that, despite your stupid anxieties, they’re not going to leave you here if he dies?

Marina closed the door tightly behind herself, leant on it and said:

“Lenny can’t go yet.” Natasha suddenly turned to her with a question on her face, and Marina nodded to her. “He’s asleep, yes – finally.”

“Anya can’t go either,” Sergey said firmly. “I’m not saying we need to go today. We can wait for two or three days, but then we must go, do you hear me? even if it means I have to drive all day every day, we’ll go whatever people feel because I’m absolutely sure it’s not safe to stay here.”

“We don’t even know if we can make it there,” Marina suddenly said loudly, as if the fact that her husband had finally fallen asleep in the next room wasn’t important anymore. “We’ve changed the route – again, and we might run out of petrol, Lenny said we don’t have enough as it is to get to the lake, and god knows what else can happen to us on the way?” Her tone sounded as if she was blaming us for what had happened to Lenny – as if it was we who had persuaded them to come with us to the lake; as if she was saying if only they had stayed in their show-off house, which they were unable to protect on the first day it all started when the check-points had been deserted around the city, but none of this would have happened.

“It could happen anywhere,” Sergey said amicably, and I was surprised to notice that her blaming tone affected him and he really did feel guilty. “And it’s a lot more likely to happen here than on the lake. There are no people on the lake there…”

“Exactly,” she interrupted him. “There’s nothing there either, on the lake! How many rooms did you say there were – two?”

He nodded and then she stepped towards him – suddenly, unexpectedly, she almost jumped at him and said, pointing at the room:

“Can you see this? Can you see this nightmare? No, look at me – can you see what it’s like here? And it’s only nine of us here. And there, on the lake, there’ll be eleven of us, you see, eleven, in two bedrooms. How are you going to fit us all in there, I wonder? Here at least we have beds – but what about there? Will we sleep on the floor? Will we have to keep each other warm?

“But at least we’ll be alive,” Sergey said quietly, and silence fell after his words. Nobody said anything else, and we could hear the crackling of the fire in the stove and the wind howling outside. It’s time to stop this madhouse, I suddenly thought, my son is outside, all alone, and there isn’t even a veranda here, he’s probably cold, it’s time to bring him back in, and if they want to continue arguing, they can do so to their hearts’ content.

I got out of the saggy bed, which creaked miserably again, stretching its rusty springs, and said:

“Bloody hell. You know what – I’ve had enough of this.” And they all looked at me – even the children, playing on the floor – and I said: “I don’t understand why we’re arguing here. Tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, we’re going to leave. If somebody wants to stay – just stay.” And I started making my way through towards the door, to Sergey, and stopped near him, because it seemed he wasn’t going to leave just yet and stood by the door, holding his jacket, shifting his gaze from one face to another. I could tell that this conversation wasn’t over for him yet.

“You’ll come with us, Ira, won’t you?” he finally said, and I quickly glanced at him, it was important for me to see who he was looking at – her or the boy, who was sitting on the floor near the stove. I even looked back at the room to trace the direction of his eyes, and my guess was wrong; the boy sat on the floor, playing, and she looked him straight in the eye and nodded slowly, without saying a word – just nodded, and I swear, I was only upset for one second, and was glad straight after that because I knew for sure that Sergey wouldn’t leave without her.

“Dad?” Sergey asked.

“I’ve been arguing with these idiots for the past three days,” Dad replied immediately – I hadn’t noticed him until that moment – maybe because he sat so still and quietly, or maybe because I was concentrating on the others. “As soon as the cars are ready, we’ll leave. Even if Anya can’t drive yet, three drivers for two cars – we’ll manage. I didn’t have time to tell you – Mishka and I found a fantastic fishing net. We need to make some room in the boot, we found so much stuff here, and we’ll carry on looking for some more tomorrow.”

“Talking about stuff,” Natasha said and suddenly fell silent because Andrey, raising himself on his elbow, looked at her; she endured his gaze and continued about ten seconds later, defiant: “What, what?! We talked about it yesterday, let’s settle it once and for all, since it’s come up.” “Settle what?” I asked, although I knew what she was going to say; funny that, these people can’t surprise me anymore, I can predict what’s on their mind, I can read them like a book.

She lowered her head, looking at her feet in the darkness under the beds, and hurriedly continued, as if afraid that if she stopped she wouldn’t have the courage to finish her sentence:

“We need to decide what we’re going to do about provisions. The food Andrey and I brought with us isn’t enough for five people.” I raised my eyebrows and realised I was smiling, but decided not to interrupt her – there was a special pleasure in letting her finish; she wasn’t looking at any of us, as if the invisible interlocutor she wanted to convince was under the beds: “And as far as I understand, Marina and Lenny haven’t had a chance to stock up on everything that’s necessary.” She finally stopped talking and I caught myself thinking that I wanted her to carry on, in my mind I was pleading with her, come on, tell us we need to leave you food, and probably medicine, and whatever else Sergey and Mishka bought on that last day while Lenny was opening the gate to those people in army uniform, who killed his dog and frightened his wife to death – but she didn’t say another word. Finally, Andrey sat up on his bed with an air of reluctance about him and looked at Sergey, carefully avoiding (or did it just seem to me?) everyone else and said:

“Sergey, we need at least a shotgun and some cartridges. Marina said you’ve got three of them.”

I opened my mouth. I just needed time to breathe in but had a coughing fit – such bad timing – and while I was fighting it, Sergey, without looking at me (like he always did when he made a decision which I would never agree with) said:

“Well I don’t know, I suppose I could leave one of the guns behind…” when suddenly – I was still wrestling with my cough, and tears were streaming from my eyes, stop it, stop it right now, I was telling myself, you should have coughed earlier, you must stop now – Ira began to speak. She had been silent ever since Sergey and I entered the house. She was talking very quietly, and that’s probably why nobody interrupted her.

“I don’t see any point in leaving a gun for them,” she said, folding her arms, and looked at Sergey coldly and calmly. “If they think this place is safe, they don’t need a gun. And we will need all three of them where we’re going.” Nobody interrupted so she continued as quietly and impassively as before: “Even if we don’t meet anyone dangerous, we’ll have to go hunting during the winter. Our provisions – she stressed the word ‘our’ – are not enough for six people. Mishka can shoot, can’t he, Anya?” She looked at me at this point – probably for the first time during that day.

“Of course,” I said, suppressing my cough, hoping that my voice wouldn’t shake, because it was so important to say everything I needed to say. “And by the way I can shoot too, so really we have even fewer guns than we need.”

“And the same applies to food,” Ira said and smiled.

It was quiet in the room again. We could hear from behind the door Lenny breathing evenly in his sleep. I knew that this conversation wasn’t finished and I was ready to carry on – I wasn’t sure that Sergey was going to help me in the discussion, but I knew for sure how it would end, and stopped worrying. I looked for a place to sit down, because it was becoming difficult to stand, but inside I was completely calm; actually we have four guns, together with Dad’s rifle, I thought, but decided not to mention it, because both Sergey and Dad knew how many guns we had. Dad, who was barely visible in semidarkness, suddenly gave out a short laugh:

“You’re a dab hand when it comes to choosing women, Sergey,” and slapped himself on the knee.

Somebody was definitely going to say something, and I began to wonder who it would be – Marina, who stood frozen in the middle of the room, or Natasha, with her mouth open, ready to speak, or Andrey, raising himself on one elbow – when suddenly there was a loud, desperate rapping on the door and Mishka’s frightened voice said: “Come out quick! We’ve got visitors!”

I don’t know why I rushed outside together with the men. Ira with the kids, Marina and Natasha stayed indoors. I did it automatically – pushed the door with my shoulder and ran out, putting my jacket on as I ran, even before Sergey, who had stayed put by the door for some reason. I even had to push him out of the way so I could open it; I was definitely out earlier than Dad and Andrey, who were further away in the room. Maybe I ran out first because I was standing near the exit and didn’t have time to think about it, or maybe because my son was outside, alone, without a weapon. Whatever the reason, Mishka and I spent about half a minute outside on our own before we heard loud worried talking from behind the door which I had left open; then something crashed on the floor. I knew that they would all turn up any time soon, but Mishka had already started walking towards the gate, peering into the darkness of the street which was only a few meters away where the Land Cruiser and the silver hatchback were barely visible in foggy November twilight. I couldn’t possibly let him go there on his own; I was convinced that it was pointless to call him, so I could only do one thing – run after him and put my hand on his shoulder. He stopped, startled, but didn’t say anything, just nodded towards the street. I looked the same way and saw a man standing just behind the hatchback, near the trailer.

Despite the noise from the house which we could hear even near the gate, I thought he hadn’t noticed us – at least he behaved as if he was completely alone on the narrow path, obstructed by two big vehicles, between the silhouettes of silent houses, looming against the greyish sky. He carefully walked around the trailer, looking at it with great attention, and then reached over and, bending down, tried to open the cover and look inside. As soon as he did that we heard hurried footsteps behind us and suddenly a bright, dazzling shot of light flashed above my left shoulder, which made the man on the path stand up, turn to us and cover his eyes with his hand, protecting himself from the bright light.

“Hey!” Sergey’s abrupt call disrupted the peaceful silence of the countryside, piercing the stillness. “Come away from the car!” It immediately became very noisy: Dad and Andrey shouted something at the same time, but the stranger, who had turned up out of nowhere as if materialising right in the middle of the street in a khaki anorak jacket with a massive fur trimmed hood on his back, a neat knitted beanie and thick ski gloves, didn’t freeze on the spot with fright. He suddenly smiled and, looking a bit unsure, but friendly, waved at us and started walking in our direction:

“It’s ok, guys, don’t worry…’

“Stop!” Sergey shouted; looking back I realised why he had delayed – in his right hand, near his hip he held a rifle, and in the left – a long narrow torch.

The newcomer in the anorak shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if surprised, but stopped and raised his arms – mockingly, it seemed to me. He spoke without any trace of fear in a calm voice, making everyone fall silent to hear what he was saying:

“I’ve stopped, it’s ok, guys, we’re just looking for a house, a warm house for the night. We didn’t want to go further in – it’s all snowed up in there, and the wheels of our car aren’t as big as yours, so we saw this street and turned into it. There’s our car,” and he waved towards the end of the street where we saw the front of a dark blue car; looking closer I saw that it was a minibus. Sergey reacted to his movement straight away and lifted his rifle higher.

“Stop flailing your arms about,” he said, but not as harshly as before.

“Ok, I will,” the newcomer said amicably and raised his arms again, “Don’t be cross. Enough shouting now, ok? My name is Igor,” and he made a movement as if was going to shake Sergey’s hand, but changed his mind and left both of his arms up in the air. “I’ve got a wife and two daughters and my wife’s parents in the car. We’ve driven from Cherepovets, we just need to stop somewhere for the night – we noticed this street from the road, and the house with a chimney, your windows were dark, I didn’t quite see that it was occupied and then came up closer and saw your cars. We’ll find another warm house, there’s plenty here,” and he smiled again.

Nobody said a word for a few seconds, and then Dad, who stood behind us, made a step forward – so he was seen in the light of Sergey’s torch – and said:

“I’ll tell you what, Igor. There are only two warm houses on this street and they’re both taken. You need to go forward a bit, the snow isn’t too deep there, you should be able to get through. We saw several houses with chimneys on the next street, you can take your pick.” He pointed in the direction of the next street, and the newcomer, following Dad’s arm with his eyes, nodded gratefully. Noticing that he was still standing there, Dad continued: “O.K., lower your arms now. You can go, your family’s probably expecting you. We’ll meet properly tomorrow.”

The man in the anorak who called himself Igor nodded again and made a move to go – we watched him silently – but then stopped and looked back once again:

“How many of you are here?”

“We’re many,” Dad replied in alarm. “Just go, don’t delay.”

“Ok, ok,” he said in a friendly voice. “The village is large, enough room for everyone.”

He walked about ten steps when Dad called him again:

“Hey, what’s your face, Igor! How’re things in Cherepovets?”

This time the man in the anorak didn’t look back but stopped walking, looking at his feet, as if cut into two by the beam of light – we could only see his back and the wide furry hood; he stood like that for a few seconds, and then, almost as a throwaway, said over his shoulder:

“It’s bad. Things are bad in Cherepovets”, and stepped into the darkness.

Quiet panic reigned in the heated house when we came back – the kids were dressed, Ira and Natasha were busy sorting things out, hurriedly stuffing their belongings into the bags which they put on top of the beds; in the door frame of the furthest room Lenny stood heavily leaning against the side – he was pale, sweaty but also dressed ready to go, and next to him on the floor, Marina crouched, lacing his boots. When we came in they all stopped what they were doing and looked at us.

“False alarm”, Dad said from the door. “They’re running from Cherepovets, a young guy and his wife, they’ve kids with them.”

Marina stopped struggling with Lenny’s bootlaces and, hugging his leg, started sobbing silently, without getting up from the floor. He looked at us, helpless, and rested his hand on top of her head – we could see it was really hard for him to stand, and Sergey, still with his coat on, hurried over to him and, slightly embarrassed, tried to lift Marina from the floor, but she clung to him even harder and started sobbing aloud instead.

“Come on, Marina, you’ll scare Dasha,” Lenny said, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

“Marina,” Ira said sternly. “Let him go, he needs to lie down, do you hear?” Only then she stood up. Without looking at anyone she turned to her daughter, who was standing by the stove, silent, with a finger in her mouth – a little face with a serene expression, unblinking, intent eyes – and started unzipping her ski suit.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t like that Igor for some reason.”

“And who do you like, I wonder,” Natasha retorted, and I looked at her, surprised: for a second I had forgotten the unpleasant moment our conversation was interrupted when the newcomer in the anorak turned up. One thing you can definitely be sure of, I thought to myself, as far as you are concerned, I don’t like either of your faces – the old one, with a permanent fake smile, carefully masking what you’re thinking with your repertory of stinging remarks, nor this new one, not smiling at all; you’re right I don’t like any of you – not you, not your haughty, snobbish husband, who came out of the house twice in four days while Dad and Mishka ran around the village looking for something that could come in handy for us, but who was confident that we would share our provisions with him. Damn you both, I’ve been visiting you for so many years, been stung by your insincere comments so many times, sitting at your table and wanting only one thing – to pick up a heavy, expensive glass object from the table and smash it on the wall so the pieces could scatter all over the place, and that would stop you smiling for good. Dear god, I’m so tired of pretending. Yes, it’s true, I don’t like you. I don’t like you.

My ears were ringing – I couldn’t possibly imagine that I could be so angry, barely able to stand on my feet after my illness. I enjoyed being angry, being worried, feeling anything that wasn’t a dull, indifferent doom, and I felt that the corners of my mouth were involuntary turning upwards, but if I actually laughed out loud they would think I had gone mad.

“Why didn’t you like him, Anya?” asked Dad. “I thought he was a good guy. They were just looking for a house, and it’s true that ours had all the windows dark, that’s why they were looking.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “But I thought he was interested in our cars, rather than house. Talking of cars, isn’t it time we went back and checked ours?”

As if in response to a command, we started getting ready. Somehow everyone realised that not all of us were going back to the big house – we didn’t even want to say it out loud. Sergey told Ira “it’s good that you’re ready, take Anton and let’s go”, Dad put on his rucksack, Mishka picked up Ira’s bag and we moved towards the door. Lenny was back in his bedroom and Marina was fussing around him, helping him to get undressed, Natasha was sitting on her bed again, with her legs crossed, and Andrey was standing by the door – he was the last person to enter and didn’t have time to take his jacket off. He stood aside, letting us pass, and spoke only when we were nearly gone.

“Sergey,” he said with a visible effort. “Shall I pop in for the gun a bit later?” But Sergey was already outside and couldn’t hear him.

I stopped at the door, turned my face to him and said, enjoying every word, with the sweetest Natasha- style smile I could muster:

“Why do you need a gun? It’s safe here, even a dog hasn’t run past in four days.”

He didn’t answer, but narrowing his eyes, looked me straight in the eye, and there was something in the way he looked at me that made me stop smiling. I suddenly felt I didn’t want to say anything, or try to prove anything. I felt terribly tired and the only thing I wanted was to reach the bed and lie down, but I lowered my head and said:

“Lenny had an air gun, ask him before he falls asleep,” and hurried outside.