The Winter Horses(24)
“Has someone been living here?” she asked.
“Just me. Like I said, for a while, I considered living in here instead of the cottage. Gave it a shot for a couple of weeks one summer. You’ll find some useful things in them boxes, I shouldn’t wonder. Candles, lamps, some blankets, a few tins of food. It’s quite cozy, actually. Light a fire under that window and the smoke will go up through the broken glass.”
“What changed your mind? About living in here? I mean, there aren’t any ghosts, are there?”
“Ghosts?” Max grinned. “Whatever gave you such an idea? The only ghost around here is me. Since you ask, the reason I never stayed here was because it turns out I don’t much like enclosed places. There’s a name for it. Claustrophobia, they call it. So I stay in the cottage out on the steppe there, with all its faults. Besides, I like to see the birds on the lake in the spring. From my window, I have a fine view of all the ducks and geese that go swimming there. I especially like to watch the gray and purple herons that hunt for fish and frogs—from them, I think I’ve learned patience. It’s like going to the cinema for me, I reckon.” He frowned. “I know this place looks a bit grim now. But we’ll soon get it looking a bit more homey. And you can have old Taras here for company. I’ll bring some more stuff across from the cottage while it’s still snowing.”
“Don’t worry,” said Kalinka. “I’ve certainly stayed in many worse places since I left Dnepropetrovsk.”
Kalinka thought of the cemetery in Nikopol where she had slept for almost a week: German bombs had opened up some of the crypts, and she had lived in one for several days before the grave diggers had come and chased her off. That had been one of the worst places, probably; she was sure there had been ghosts in that crypt. Tolerable during the day, but not a place to stay at night. It’s hard to sleep in a cemetery because you always worry that you’re never going to wake up.
“I expect you have, child. And I’m right sorry for it, so I am.”
“Have you always lived here on your own, Max? I think you mentioned a wife.”
The old man grimaced.
“Once, there was a girl I loved and married. Her name was Oxana Olenivna, and she worked as a maid for the dowager baroness Sofia-Louise, but she disappeared around the time that the old lady was murdered. I always supposed Oxana ran away or was sent to a labor camp by the secret police. Either way, it’s been years since I’ve seen or heard of my wife, and I don’t suppose that’s ever going to change.”
“And no one since her?” Kalinka asked. “No company at all?”
“Well, there’s Taras here, but no, child. There have been no women since Oxana. Besides, what woman would look at me? The NKVD left my body looking so twisted and scarred that any normal woman would be repelled by a fellow like me.”
“Was it them who hurt your neck?” asked Kalinka.
“It was. My neck was broken and mended badly so that my head sits stiffly on my shoulders—so stiffly that if I want to look around, I have to turn my whole body to do it. As you can see.”
Kalinka bit her lip and, reaching out, touched his neck gently with her hand. “Does it hurt?” she asked.
“No, it doesn’t hurt. Not now. To be honest, I’ve gotten used to the inconvenience of having a neck that is useless to me. Besides, I can do everything an able-bodied man can do—sometimes more, because pain means little to me now. There’s no pain I ever encountered that could compete with the disappearance of my wife and the death of the baroness and the fact that the baron can never again return from Germany to Askaniya-Nova.” He thought for a moment and then added: “And the murder of those horses, of course.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kalinka. “For all your trouble.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, child. I’m a very fortunate fellow. I have plenty of wood for my fire, which has a bread oven made of stone. I’ve plenty to eat. In summer, I fish for lampreys, and I pick soft fruit from the bushes. Sometimes I go hunting for small game—squirrels and rabbits, mostly—but in truth, I hate killing anything. I could happily live without the meat, but as you’ve discovered, the fur is essential to survive the bitter cold of our Ukrainian winters.
“Not that I dislike winter, mind. I love its harsh simplicity, the thick blanket of snow that makes everything eerily quiet so that you can hear a pheasant a hundred meters away, the pure, cold air, and the excuse to build up a good fire and stay late in bed. But my favorite season is the early summer, when there are wild strawberries on the ground and plums on the trees, and the magnolia trees are covered with white flowers as if the branches were heavy with snow.”