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Authors: William Boyd

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BOOK: Fascination
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He looks at the date at the top of the letter and makes some elementary calculations. Of course, Potapenko was in Paris too, now. So how could she write like this to him? Was she waiting for Potapenko to arrive or had he just left her?

In new acid-biting anger he picks up his pen. ‘Accept a farewell kiss from an old man, Lika, my darling. She who travels alone, travels furthest. Let me sit here on my estate with my memories and my problems. Kirghiz, the bay gelding, needs the horse doctor. We have only seventy ducklings this year. Last week’s rain has ruined the clover. Tell your smart Parisian friends of the things which preoccupy me –’ He crumples up the piece of paper. No: revolting self-pity. He must find a way of being careless and carefree, brilliant and witty. That’s what will wound her: his vast insouciance.

Lunch is eaten in almost silence. Masha refuses to respond to his few attempts at mollifying her. He compliments her on the white salmon, on the cucumbers, but she pays no attention. His father – who enjoys seeing his children quarrel – eats noisily with a smile on his face. His mother, who hates confrontation of any kind, seems to shrink into herself, often closing her eyes as if she’s at prayer. At
the end of the meal his father belches and is careful to make a small sign of the cross in front of his gaping mouth.

He goes for a walk, longing to be alone. Quinine follows him for a minute or so then grows bored and waddles back home. He skirts the orchard and strolls down the lane towards the river. A sudden, stiffish breeze combs the leaves of the willows – their silver undersides glinting in the sunshine like a flashing shoal of fish darting amongst weeds. Too complicated a simile, he thinks, admiring the graceful, supple willows nonetheless, as they bend and recoil to the invisible urgings of the wind. Across the watermeadows he can see the mill on the outskirts of the village. In the east heavy clouds build. More rain, just when the clover looked like it might recover. Yes, of course, he must talk about Potapenko. How perfect: a long letter to Lika about Potapenko and their plans for the Volga trip – from Iaroslavl to Nizhni and then down the Volga to Tsaritsyn and from there to Taganrog. Nothing could be more telling, nothing could better convey the scale of his utter indifference to her betrayal.

He takes out her letter and a pencil to make some notes and his eye is caught by a few phrases: ‘This is a cold unfriendly city of secrets and whispered rumours. Your poor Lika eats pastries to console herself and is turning into a giantess. Will you still love me if I’m fat, beloved intolerant uncle? They say it helps you sing better which is why all opera singers are fat. When I’m back with you I’ll sing you a lullaby –’

Then the thought comes to him: it’s not all about Lika… After all, there’s the prospect of the three-week holiday in the company of Potapenko, a holiday in the full knowledge of what has gone on between him and Lika. Perhaps the Volga trip’s not such a good idea after all… But he has to meet Potapenko in Moscow, anyway: they have to sort out that business with Suvorin. He walks on, absentmindedly hitting out with his stick at the nettles and burdocks growing alongside the river path. He should see Aleksandra in Moscow: lithe, dark Aleksandra who wants him so fervently. That last letter had been extraordinary – with its talk of heat and ardour
and French kisses… Which reminds him: he has to talk to Blago-veshchensky about establishing a proper post-office at Lopasnia. That would mean letters every day, and parcels too, without having to go all the way to Serpukhov –

He hears his name being called and looks round to see Efim running towards him, a piece of paper fluttering in his hand.

He is glad of the summons, he tells himself. Whatever nonsense it may portend at least it’s some kind of a distraction – take his mind off Lika and Potapenko.

Beside him, Roman taps Cossack Girl, the new mare, on her haunches with the end of his whip and whistles at her through his teeth.

Come on, Cossack Girl, show the master how fast you can go. Come on, my lovely girl.

She tosses her head and mane, the flies bothering her, and plods along steadily.

Why has she got no bridle? he asks Roman.

She can’t take the bit, sir.

So you just harness her with rope? It doesn’t look very smart.

If I put a bit in her, sir, we’d be off the road in a second.

Did you know this when you bought her?

Oh, yes. Yes, yes.

They have reached the outskirts of Talezh. Roman gently wheels Cossack Girl into a right turn and the railway station comes into view.

Where are you going?

To the school, sir.

We’re going to the new school, not the old school.

Ah, right. And where would that be, sir?

Behind the courthouse.

Roman heaves on the reins, dismounts and leads Cossack Girl round in a 180-degree turn before climbing back on board. They set off again.

He sits patiently outside the headmaster’s office, waiting. The headmaster’s secretary is heating up the samovar so they can have some tea. She brings him a plate of small sugary cakes. He declines. She apologizes for the third or fourth time and says the headmaster will be with him in a matter of minutes.

While she busies herself with the samovar he takes out Lika’s letter and smoothes it on his knee. ‘You mustn’t be cross with me, ogre-ish daddy-monster. I hardly see Potapenko because his wife is here with him and we must keep our secret. To everyone in this horrible hotel I’m a married lady. So write to me as Madame and not Mademoiselle and don’t be angry with your lovelorn, getting-fatter-every-day, sweet-toothed, not-so-little Lika…’

‘Secret’. How many times had she used the word ‘secret’? A sudden, aching image of her comes into his mind as he reads this. That time when they spent three days at the Hotel Loskutnaia. He had come back unexpectedly and, wanting to surprise her, had tiptoed through the hall and peered round the door of the sitting room. She was standing in her nightdress looking out through a gap in the muslin curtains at the street, a wand of sunlight setting her hair ablaze. But her eyes were unseeing: she was thinking, frowning, as if she were trying to remember some elusive fact, her lips pushed forward in a pout, one hand idly caressing her plump left breast. He watched her for twenty seconds before he coughed politely and she turned to greet him, the frown and the pout erased by a widening smile on her broad, beautiful face.

He follows the headmaster down the wooden stairway (creaking like a caveful of bats) towards the courtyard.

Are these new stairs?

Everything is new, sir.

Then this joinery is lamentable.

We cannot find the craftsmen, sir. They’ve all gone to the cities, looking for money. We do our best with the dross that remains.

The headmaster steps into the courtyard and turns to face him. He is a lean man of average height and horribly bald – little tufts of
hair around his ears and above his neck. He has let the whiskers on his cheeks grow long in compensation and consequently looks like a monkey. An oriental monkey – what were they called? Macaques? Gibbons?

There you have it, sir, the headmaster says ruefully. What should we do?

He looks around the courtyard. Three storeys: the ground floor stone, the top two wood. The bust of Count Nicolai Khobotov on its granite plinth squarely in the middle. The headmaster raises a pointing hand, dramatically.

At the level of the eaves a net has been strung covering the entire area of the courtyard below. In the middle of the net a pigeon is trapped fast, its wings askew, its feet splayed, almost as if it were trying to turn on to its back but had been frozen halfway through the manoeuvre.

He steps out into the courtyard and looks up at the hapless bird. A pink claw paddles the air.

It’s alive, he observes.

Very much so, the headmaster says. That is our problem.

Why did you have the courtyard netted like this?

Against the pigeons. They would perch on the statue, you see. They defecated on the statue. After a weekend the statue would be grey with pigeon filth… The headmaster lowers his voice, takes the soft right wing of his whiskers in the fingers of his right hand and draws it to a point. Count Khobotov is our honoured patron, the honorary chairman of our school board, the headmaster explains. He most honourably allowed us to name the school after him. He honours us with impromptu visits –

– Does he live near here?

One of his estates is close by. He comes each summer.

I never knew that.

Imagine if he came and saw his statue despoiled… The headmaster swallows, and places his hand on his throat. The net was the only solution. Have you any idea how much a net of this size costs? Or of the price demanded to fix it to the eaves, to hold
it stretched securely in place, summer and winter, spring and autumn?

I’ve no idea.

Close to a thousand roubles.

He looks at the headmaster and feels sorry for this troubled, nervous man. But something is nagging at the back of his mind. Why have you asked me to come here?

Because of your gift, sir. My gift?

He remembers: last year he had given the new school at Talezh money to buy text books.

How much did I give you?

A thousand roubles, sir.

He paces around the courtyard waiting for Roman to return. Pacing around the courtyard under his very own net, he realizes. A thousand-rouble net that he has paid for to prevent the bust of Count Khobotov being shat on by pigeons…

He has suggested to the headmaster that they take down the net and free the trapped bird, but he has been assured that the cost of finding workmen to do this job and then to replace the net securely would be prohibitive. It was clear to him, in his further discussions with the headmaster, that he was there to take responsibility. The headmaster’s logic ran in this manner: his gift had purchased the net, therefore he should take responsibility for the resolution of the current net/pigeon problem.

The headmaster appears and asks him if he would like more tea and cakes. He declines.

Has this ever happened before? he asks the headmaster.

Once. Last autumn, the headmaster says.

And what did you do?

Nothing. A pigeon was trapped and we couldn’t reach it. The bird died and we left its corpse there. Unfortunately it took many months before it decomposed and ultimately disappeared. Some of the younger pupils were distressed… The dead pigeon was very
visible from the upper classrooms, you see. Week after week, month after month.

And what with Count Khobotov taking up his summer residence…

Precisely. That’s why we sent for you, sir. As it was only thanks to your generosity that we were able to fit a net in the first place.

Yes.

We felt you should be consulted.

Roman comes into the courtyard with the shotgun.

Shall I do it, sir? He asks.

No, no, I insist. This is my net after all. Whose gun is this?

A friend of my brother, sir. He’s a blacksmith. Lives right by the church.

He breaks the gun and checks that there is a cartridge in each barrel. Then he steps into the centre of the courtyard and aims upward. The bird suddenly begins to try and flap its pinioned wings as if somehow it knows it has only seconds to live.

He aims and he fires – both barrels simultaneously. The pigeon disappears in a cloud of feathers and shredded flesh and bone. There is a hole in the net the size of a man’s head.

As the noise of the shotgun blast reverberates around the courtyard he is aware of a ringing in his ears, as if a small shrill bell is being vigorously shaken somewhere close at hand, and he suddenly realizes – with absolute, cold clarity; with absolute, cold certainty – what Lika was trying to tell him in her letter.

Supper proves to be another silent meal but he doesn’t mind as he has no inclination to talk. Masha remains furious with him. His father still enjoys his children’s wordless animosity and picks his teeth with particular enthusiasm for over a quarter of an hour. His mother has gone to her bed with a migraine.

After the meal is cleared away he takes a tumbler of vodka into his study and settles down to try and complete his short story. He writes a page or two and begins to relax: it’s going well. He calls for another tumbler of vodka. He knows he shouldn’t drink too
much but an agreeable mood of creative endeavour is on him and he wants to encourage it. That evening he hardly thinks at all about Lika, Potapenko and their impending child. Hardly at all.

BOOK: Fascination
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