Wave of Terror (29 page)

Outside, the girl ran frantically in the direction of Luninetska Street. She was terrified that she was being followed, that Simon Stepanovich was on her heels, that he would catch up to her, rip off her clothes, and discover she had tricked him. Then he would beat her mercilessly and defile her. Paralyzed with fear, her head pounding, she ran through the deserted streets, every few seconds pausing to look over her shoulder. After about twenty minutes, breathless, she found herself safely on the doorsteps of her house. Slamming the front door open, she flew past her father in the
hallway and stormed into the kitchen, where she found her mother stoking the wood stove.

“Mother, mother! Oh, mother it was awful!” She could not stop crying. Efrosinia stood dumbstruck. Marusia ripped the Persian lamb off her back, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. “Damn bastards, all of them! Mother, he stank of drink and corpses. He was so repugnant.”

“Settle down, my darling, shh, settle down. It’s over. It’s all over.” Efrosinia took her daughter in her arms and gently patted her, while she asked in a low whisper, “Marusia, tell me, did anything happen? Did he …”

“No, mother no, no, no, nothing happened.” Marusia was now even more hysterical. “Nothing! Nothing!”

Efrosinia pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her daughter’s cheeks. “My poor, poor child. What are we going to do now? There’s nowhere for us to turn. We should really go to the police, but how can we go to the police when Sobakin is the police? What are we going to do?” She wept, feeling her daughter’s pain, as if it were she herself who had just gone through the ordeal. She stroked Marusia’s hair and rocked her in her arms. “I took care of you when you were sick, I sang you lullabies to get you to sleep at night, I marveled at your first steps. And now a filthy bastard appears and like a wild cat attacks a harmless lamb. May his teeth rot and fall out in Hell. Damned NKVD man! Lucifer!”

In their tight embrace mother and daughter did not notice Valentyn standing in the doorway. Shaking his head and tugging at his beard, he sang out to them, “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say all along that Kulik would have been a better match?”

I
t was no longer a secret that Iofe Nicel Leyzarov was having an affair with Dounia Avdeevna. In the beginning it was all quite hush-hush because Leyzarov went out of his way to exercise extreme caution: every other night, late, after everyone was asleep, he set out for Dounia’s house in the village of Morozovich and returned to his quarters in Hlaby by early dawn. For the longest time this arrangement went on undetected. Then one day everything changed. For some reason Dounia insisted that Leyzarov either spend the entire night with her and return home some time after breakfast, or visit her directly at lunchtime and return to Hlaby before nightfall.

This new schedule did not affect Leyzarov too much, since Dounia was more than capable of satisfying his sexual needs as easily in broad daylight as in the dead of night. But what did bother him was being seen by the villagers. Almost instantly, to his great dismay, gossip broke out and spread like wildfire, and before he knew it all eyes were on him. He heard people whispering behind his back, and at the Clubhouse meetings the snickering never stopped. On a number of occasions he overheard villagers chuckling and murmuring, “That Dounia sure knows how to reel them in,” “She has them begging for more,” and “There’s certainly enough of her to go around. Hah! Hah! Hah!”

What bothered Leyzarov most about this gossip was not so much that he had been found out, but rather that it seemed to suggest Dounia was involved with more than one man. And it was
not long before he began to suspect that there was indeed more to the picture than met the eye and that he just might be the brunt of an even larger rumor. As the days passed, he felt as if his presence in Dounia’s life was beginning to play a smaller role and even that she was growing indifferent to his needs. Gradually he became convinced that Dounia Avdeevna had taken up with another man. It troubled him deeply to think he no longer held exclusive rights to his love nest and that after six long months he was about to be cast off like an old shoe. He waited for the moment to come, for that proverbial slap in the face, but happily, and to his surprise, nothing happened—at least not for a while.

As the days passed, Leyzarov basked blissfully in the warmth of Dounia Avdeevna’s bedroom. With all his fears of unfaithfulness quashed, he felt infinitely grateful for the attention she was bestowing on him. In fact, in his heart he began to feel the birth of a new sensation—could love be taking the place of infatuation? His urge to be with Dounia was uncontrollable. Separation now seemed inconceivable to him; if anything, he felt their special bond strengthening. This woman, Dounia, had been his lover for almost half a year, and he began to feel their affair could go on for another six months, maybe even forever.

At the same time, it seemed incredible that he should have fallen in love with her. She was not a beauty by any means, and often when he looked at her, he couldn’t quite figure out what it was about her that kept him coming back: she was fat, her face was lumpy and crude, and her long stringy hair looked like a dirty old floor mop. There was no gentleness or softness in her gestures, and her vulgar laugh repelled him. She was the loudest and most grotesque woman he had ever known.

But despite all that, there was something exceptional about her. She was passionate, cruel and sensual, always bursting with new appetites and adventures. The blood in her veins boiled and when she shivered it was with a kind of drunken excitement. She was skilled in the art of lovemaking, always throwing herself frantically and shamelessly into the pleasures of the flesh. Her caresses
were brutal, wild, and she did not hesitate to succumb to the dictates of her body. Leyzarov had never known a woman like this, so ready to lose herself again and again. He felt a deep lust inside him and yearned after her day and night, like a famished animal.

Interestingly enough, it was not only the force of lust that bound Leyzarov to Dounia but also the force of the palate—she was as good a cook as she was a lover. Dounia Avdeevna worked wonders in the kitchen, concocting the tastiest omelets, the most succulent cabbage rolls, and her boiled beef was mouth-watering. In her cellar she stored an assortment of cured foods like pickles and sausages and she always had a generous supply of potatoes, beets and carrots. And if that wasn’t enough, with her many connections in the Pinsk marketplace, she always made sure that her pantry was stocked with Iofe’s favorite foods, one of which was pickled herring. Iofe really lived the good life and believed that indeed everything was better and happier under Stalin’s Constitution.

One night at Dounia’s, Leyzarov happened to overstay his visit, and instead of setting out at his usual time just before nightfall, he prepared to take his leave at a few minutes past midnight. Dounia was cross, and pushed him impatiently toward the door.

“Off with you! It’s later than I thought.”

“Why are you so eager to be rid of me, my dumpling? We were having ourselves such a good time.” Then, laughing, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were seeing another man.”

“Oh, my long-nosed soldier,” she shouted after him, “how ugly you are after all. The dark scares you, is that it? If the Devil catches you by the seat of your pants, how will you defend yourself? Just remember, praying is subversive. All it will do is land you in Siberia!”

“Not to worry, my little dumpling,” he called back, already in the yard, “I have no need for prayers. With my pistol I’ll stop the Devil dead in his tracks.”

Whistling happily, in good spirits, Leyzarov walked briskly from the edge of Morozovich onto the main road that led back to Hlaby, guided by the moon and stars. When a blast of frigid air
swept across his face, he turned down the earflaps of his sheepskin hat. Invigorated by the brightened sky, he quickened his pace and listened to the crunching sound of his footsteps. He delighted in the frosty stillness.

He couldn’t be a more contented man—not only did he have a good position with the Party as Representative from the District Committee of the Pinsk Region, but he also had a little something on the side. No, indeed, life was not passing him by. True, at times he found his Party duties tiresome, especially when expropriating land from peasants or confiscating their provisions, and the long hours of Party meetings were becoming increasingly boring, but at least there was one place he had totally and exclusively for him-self—his little love nest. It was there that he was able to concentrate on his own needs and forget about the common good.

“Yes,” he said aloud as he walked along the frozen marsh, “I’m a lucky man. Dounia, you’re the woman for me … It’s true you were not blessed with the beauty and softness that might inspire a painter or a poet, and your love of food has pushed you out in all directions, but you’re mine, all mine.”

Suddenly he noticed a solitary bush on the right side of the road. It thrust out of the snow like a huge wicker basket, cold, dark, and unmoving. Dried leaves dusted with frost dangled from its limbs, and a sprinkling of pink petals looking very much like roses clung to its lower branches.

“How odd,” he thought, stooping to examine it. “Exposed to the harshest of elements and still it clings to life. The leaves look almost green and the petals look so fresh and alive. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?”

Beyond the bush, there was nothing but a vast, empty, silent plain. Leyzarov knew the trail between Morozovich and Hlaby like the back of his hand, and even in the dark of night he was able to tell where he was along the path. Looking to the right he remembered that exactly at this point about a quarter kilometer from the road was a clump of alder shrubs that continued southward all the way to the Stryy River. So why had this peculiar bush
never caught his attention before? A scattering of snow fell, and the moon, climbing up between the trees, slipped behind the clouds. When the moon re-emerged he turned back to the bush. As he bent to examine a limb on its left side, longer than the others by about a foot, he heard a strange, cackling sound. When the lower branches began to rustle, he edged his way forward, trying to get a better look. Several seconds passed. Then as if out of nowhere a largish object soared swiftly upward, and landed with a heavy thud directly at his feet. Completely bewildered and rather frightened, Leyzarov jumped back. A sharp, shrill cry pierced the silence. Leyzarov stiffened like a board. Something horrible was staring up at him; it had eyes that were penetrating and shiny, like live coals

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” Then again, “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Gradually the thing came into full view: it was smaller than he first thought, soft and roundish, with a pointed head, sporting a crest of brush-like feathers. After a moment an enormous spread of plumage appeared, displaying iridescent greens and golds with rich vibrant peacock-blue markings.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Leyzarov scratched his head. “If it isn’t the peacock from the Olivinski manor. What’s it doing here in the middle of nowhere scaring me half out of my wits?” Then sneering, “Cold, are you? Well, come here; let me put you out of your misery.”

When he reached to grab it by the neck, the bird sprang upward instantly, and flying into the air, released an earsplitting yelp. Leyzarov put his hands to his ears to muffle the noise. When finally the bird settled a little further away, Leyzarov once again lunged forward and tried to snatch it, this time by the tail, and almost grabbed hold of its feathers. The peacock flung itself around, screaming louder and more wildly than before. Leyzarov was thrown completely off balance and fell into the snow, where he lay for a minute or two. When finally he regained himself and sat up, he was astonished to find the peacock staring at him, flapping its wings, as if it was taunting him.

“Why, you useless peafowl!” he exploded. “I’ll get you once and for all!”

Rising to his feet, he reached for his holster, pulled out his revolver, aimed and fired it. The peacock, frightened by the noise, scrambled behind the bush to safety. Several seconds of silence followed. Leyzarov listened, and not hearing a sound, aimed and fired again, this time randomly into the bush, hoping to somehow bring the bird down. When the silence continued, he became convinced he had finally finished it off. Then as if out of nowhere a strange, deafening, almost pain-filled wail erupted, followed by a series of shorter, fainter ones.

Leyzarov muttered hotly, “That damned bird is still alive!”

Panting heavily, thrashing through the snow, it was not long before he caught sight of the animal in the open field. It was dragging its right leg behind it, slightly opening and closing its fan as if in distress. A bullet had landed in its right upper thigh and it looked as if it was about to collapse.

“I’ve got you now,” laughed Leyzarov victoriously. “Come here and let me finish you off.”

But the bird, flapping its wings frantically, somehow managed to move further from Leyzarov, who chased after it, firing shot after shot. He shouted at the top of his voice, “You stupid bird! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do!”

It dragged itself farther and farther on its healthy leg. Leyzarov took aim and fired his last shot. A long wail erupted from somewhere in the darkness, and then came silence. The bird dropped to the ground, dead. Iofe hastened to examine his kill, and when he saw the animal lying limp and motionless on a smooth crust of ice, he shouted loudly, “I got you, you bourgeois bastard! I won!”

As he bent to pluck a feather out of its wing for a memento, suddenly he heard a cracking sound beneath his feet. He was horrified to find he was standing not on solid ground but in the middle of a pond, and the ice beneath him was starting to give way. He could feel his body slowly slipping into the ice-cold water. His muscles cramped and he went completely numb. Cursing the bird for having lured him
there, he was certain his life was about to end, either by drowning or by freezing, whichever came first. His blood pulsated in his temples and his head whirled. Kicking the water, frantically trying to stay afloat, he began to realize that his boot heels were touching bottom and that the water actually reached only to his waist. He turned ever so carefully, and, with the tips of his fingers, searched for ice thick enough to support his weight. But the cold was becoming more and more painful, and he was starting to experience a tremendous loss of strength. When finally he found a chunk thick enough, he placed his palms flat upon the surface, and with all his strength pushed himself upward and pulled himself out of the water.