Denouncer (23 page)

Shortly before the start of the spring semester, Viktor showed up in Sasha’s office to tell him that he had papers and a passport in the name of Ivan Goncharov, and that Sasha needn’t worry if the secret police came snooping around. “I’m now official,” said Viktor, “so you can safely introduce Ivan Goncharov to the other faculty members.” Given that Viktor had never appeared on campus, he was a stranger to the other teachers; and Goran, at Viktor’s request, had sworn to keep his friend’s real name unspoken. Although the teaching staff and students had often whispered about the “new” man staying at the farmhouse, no one had had the courage to ask. In fact, shortly after Viktor’s arrival, it was bruited about that the new man was Galina’s brother and that the director would also find him a place in the school. So when Sasha announced that Viktor would be teaching a course in linguistics, the other teachers, assuming that their own salaries would suffer from the addition of another person, made known their displeasure. But when Sasha explained that Comrade Goncharov was teaching for nothing, smiles replaced sneers.

Viktor set out immediately to ingratiate himself with the other teachers, a task that he accomplished handily with the help of Goran’s camera and tripod (eventually returned), and Goran’s painstaking instructions. Posing each of the teachers in his or her favorite setting, Viktor flattered the staff with his portraits, which in fact were handsomely done, owing to Goran’s lessons and artistic flare for developing and framing. The teachers nearly swooned. In no time, Ivan Goncharov was a favorite of his colleagues, who chuckled at his name but never dared to call him Oblomov, the title of the famous author’s novel and a name associated with laziness.

Students took to Viktor at once, fascinated by his subject and his skill at producing click sounds of every tone and variety. For all his natural reticence, he came alive in front of a class. The school soon buzzed that the hot new topic and teacher were linguistics and Ivan Goncharov. Galina was pleased that Viktor had a new view of teaching. Sasha was less enthusiastic, not because of any failing in Viktor’s classroom performance, but because he worried that the man would never decamp from the farmhouse. At the end of the first week of school, however, Viktor surprisingly announced, with a click of his tongue, that he was moving in with Bogdan Dolin. He retreated to the attic, packed his belongings, and exited with another alveolar click.

“No good will come of this move. Mark my words. You’ll see,” Sasha observed.

“I thought you wanted him gone,” Galina replied. “You ought to be delighted.”

“The next thing you know, we’ll hear that Goran has left his digs at Bella Zeffina’s house and joined Viktor at Bogdan’s.” Galina said nothing. “I tell you, they are an unholy trio.”

With a puckish smile, Galina said, “We’ll have privacy again.”

“Not entirely,” he corrected her. “There’s still the lab, and you can bet Goran and Viktor will be spending a lot of time there, up to no good.”

“You are entirely too suspicious. One would think that
you
had something to hide.”

“It’s the times.”

“Well,” she said, making for the door, “I can’t argue with that.”

✷

A prolonged period of rain plagued Balyk, causing cellars to flood, roofs to leak, and roads to become boggy. The horse-driven sleds that glided so easily on the winter ice were useless in the ankle-deep mud. Then, too, there was the fog that marinated the countryside. Thick clouds hung in every valley, and the sky overhead seemed low enough to touch. Unlike the rains of April and May, February precipitation was a cold harbinger of the uncomfortable months ahead. Clothes took days to dry, even when hung near a stove; electrical circuits, never dependable at best, short-circuited; and the generator at the Michael School sputtered and frequently plunged classrooms into darkness. Any motorist foolish enough to drive his vehicle in such wet weather was sure to experience an electrical failure. Only the local storyteller appreciated the foul conditions, which made her tales of mermaids, water sprites, and demons all the more present. Bella Zeffina invited the local children to come to the elementary school on Saturday afternoon to hear her tell the tale of the water snake. In the meantime, she said, “Be careful. Bad dreams are related to water.” Alya begged to attend. Galina shrugged and said, “Why not?” and Sasha told her to dress warmly and take her galoshes.

Bella Zeffina, considered by the locals as something of a sorceress, loved children, kept a clean house, cooked Polish dishes for her husband, Max Zeffin, who had come from Lvov, and had an inexhaustible supply of folktales that she shared with the children on special occasions. The current forty-day rainfall qualified as an unusual event. With her dimpled cheeks and elbows, round face, pale blue eyes, and flaxen-gray hair done up in a coiled hank, she rested her heavy body on a stool, rolled up her wool socks, pulled her knitted shawl tightly around her shoulders, lowered her eyelids, and began.

Once upon a time, an old woman like me had a daughter. (Bella, in fact, had lost a young daughter to smallpox.) Her name was Abigail. While she was swimming in the local pond, a snake, who introduced himself as Vikenti, which means “conquering,” came out of the water and rested on her clothes, which she had spread on a bush. When Abigail left the pond, she discovered the snake, who said, “If you want your clothes back, you’ll have to marry me.” Well, Abigail couldn’t walk home without any clothes on, so she agreed, thinking that it was nonsense that a girl and a snake could wed.

Arriving home, she told her mother what had happened. Her mother scoffed at the very idea of a human being and a reptile being joined in marriage. And there the matter stood, because both the mother and daughter forgot all about it. But several weeks later, the snake wriggled up to Abigail’s cottage. Finding the windows and doors locked, Vikenti stole into the house through the chimney, which left him covered with soot and resembling a demon. Abigail tried to run out of the house, but Vikenti caught her, carried her back to the pond, and dragged her into the water. On the bottom of the pond, he miraculously turned into a well-spoken young man, explaining that out of the water he became a snake but under the water he was a human. Abigail and Vikenti lived submerged for several years and had one daughter, Alina, which means “bright and beautiful.” One day, Abigail said that she wanted to visit her mother and show off her daughter. Vikenti agreed. Abigail asked him how she could return to the bottom of the pond after she returned from seeing her mother. Vikenti told her to call his name three times. Abigail spent a week with her mother and related how good her life was at the bottom of the pond. One day, her mother asked was there some secret to reentering the water? She said she need only call her husband’s name three times.

Then Abigail’s mother stole from the house, went to the edge of the pond, and called “Vikenti, Vikenti, Vikenti.” When he surfaced, he appeared as a snake. The mother, who had brought with her a sharpened axe, cut off the head of the snake, causing the water in the pond to grow dark with blood. On learning of her mother’s betrayal, Abigail took her daughter to the pond and wept and wailed, calling Vikenti’s name. But all she heard was the silent lapping of the water among the lily pads. Knowing some of Vikenti’s magic, a sorrowful Abigail turned her daughter into a wren and herself into a nightingale, and they both flew off on the wind, never to return.

For some reason, Galina felt uncomfortable listening to Alya retell the story. She had always feared snakes, but was that the reason for her discomfort? That night, she recounted to Sasha the story and her response to it. Perhaps he could provide some insight into her feelings. He pondered her words and after a long pause, remarked gnomically, “The earth and snake alike renew their skins, and that is when the world’s new age begins.”

Trouble arose before the rains ceased. A note appeared on the school bulletin board saying cryptically, “Sasha Parsky’s time is over.” The author of the note was a mystery. Had it come from a teacher, a student, a parent? No one knew. If it constituted some kind of cabal, Sasha thought he’d better learn more, if possible. He spoke individually to his teachers, but though all of them had seen the note and it had become a source of whisperings, the staff disclaimed any knowledge of the writer. Perhaps in fear of inviting the director’s suspicions, the teachers never met in groups, but rather entered into colloquy two by two. A week passed and nothing further untoward occurred. But in the second week, another note appeared: “Director Parsky OUT!” It was then that Sasha glimpsed the intent behind the two notes. They were not intended to scare him but to get him to relinquish the directorship of the school. Brodsky had experienced similar events, so he might be able to tell Sasha which teachers were acting behind his back to expel him.

As usual, Brodsky sat reading and smoking. On hearing Sasha’s story, he skeptically said:

“It doesn’t sound like one of the old-timers. They’d complain directly to the secret police. Have you heard from Filatov?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I would assume that someone is trying to organize an internal coup.” He paused just long enough to light a new cigarette from the old one. “What about this new fellow you’ve told me about?”

“Viktor Harkov is quite capable of rabble-rousing, but why would he want to plot against me?”

Brodsky, wearing a worn cardigan covered with food stains, shook his head in disbelief. “Simple. He wants your job.”

Sasha noticed that Avram’s sweater was missing a button. For some reason, he wondered where it had gone. His mind wandered. Only slowly did he bring his attention back to what Avram had said. Viktor would be the last person to want the directorship. It would mean being vetted by the secret police. In no time, his betrayal in Ryazan, and his connection to Lukashenko, would be known. Surely Viktor wasn’t foolish enough to think that a forged passport with the name Ivan Goncharov would pass scrutiny by the OGPU, renamed the NKVD. Perhaps Viktor had someone else in mind to become director, someone who would defer to Viktor and treat his support not grudgingly, but devoutly, unlike Sasha’s attitude. If so, who would that person be?

“Which of the teachers,” Sasha asked, “was particularly bitter over your original appointment and wanted to replace you?”

Brodsky laughed, bringing on a coughing fit. Spitting into the fire, he hoarsely replied, “All of them, but especially Olga Oborskaia. She felt that teaching physics entitled her to a higher academic position, since physics and math are harder to master than the other disciplines, except perhaps for chemistry. But I long felt that Vera Chernikova, for all her surface sweetness, would have been glad to join Olga in a palace coup. There has always been among the staff an undercurrent of rivalry: those trained in the physical sciences against everyone else.”

“You’re telling me that Olga or Vera or both would conspire to gain my position? If Viktor is stirring the pot, he presumably has most of the staff on his side. I seem to have lost this game.”

“Then strike first.”

“How?”

“I’ve told you before: Denounce him.”

✷

Although he abhorred snooping, Sasha used his passkey after hours to enter the classroom-offices of his teachers. In almost every instance, the filing cabinets and desks were securely locked. Where a drawer was accessible, nothing of importance was found. On the desk of Vera Chernikova he found a diagram of a mouth, designating the various parts of the oral cavity: lips, gingiva (gums), hard and soft palates, uvula, papillae of tongue, palatine tonsil, tongue, and the teeth. At the bottom of the page in small script were the letters “c.c.” He came away from his nocturnal endeavors disappointed.

Without telling Galina about his unsuccessful search, he asked her help to locate the person behind the notes. Her own distaste for surveillance of any kind rendered her reluctant to do anything more than keep an eye on the bulletin board. Sasha felt that given all his favors, at the least she could ingratiate herself with the staff and try to find out if a plot was afoot. Galina refused. Her open disdain for becoming what she called a “mole” reinforced Sasha’s fears that she and Viktor were lovers. He told himself he had cause for concern. On one occasion, he had found them in the farmhouse alone, after Viktor had taught his one class and Galina had returned home for lunch. When he walked in, they averted their eyes and stuttered through explanations that Sasha found unconvincing. His original impulse had been to enlist Alya’s help, but he could not bring himself to induct a child into the filthy business of spying. Now he wasn’t so sure. With Galina refusing to cooperate, his thoughts once again turned to Alya. He might just use her after all, but he would have to be subtle in his approach. She was much too clever to fall for some obvious ruse.

“We have to find out Viktor’s birthday so we can prepare a party for him. Wouldn’t that be nice, Alya?”

“Why not just ask him?”

“That would give the whole thing away.”

“Maybe Mamma knows.”

“She and Viktor are such good friends, I think if she asked he’d know in a minute.”

“But what if she already knows?”

“Well, that’s different.”

“But we must keep it all a secret.”

“I’d never tell. There are a lot of things I know that I never repeat. Mamma says I’d make a good soldier.”

“Really? I would never have guessed that you knew secrets.”

“A lot of them.”

“Well, maybe someday you’ll tell me one or two of them.”

She reflected for a moment and said, “Maybe.”

This conversation took place shortly after Galina rejected his plan as unsavory. Sasha and Alya were in the barn brushing Scout, she on one side, he on the other. Each had a strong-bristled brush that came with a handstrap. As they stroked the pony, he punctuated his comments about animal husbandry with his questions. She seemed intent on the job at hand and gave no indication that he was trying to use her. In fact, when she had said that she knew “things,” he had let the conversation trail off so that his wordlessness would sink in, providing an impulse to talk. As she brushed the animal’s mane, she ran her hand through the hair and let it fall lazily off to one side.