Riding Icarus (3 page)

“I didn’t stop – this enchanted place stopped me. The devil, may his tail wrap round his neck and choke him, stopped me,” boomed the Cossack. He did, however, unclench his fists. “How did you get here?”

At the thought of explaining about Icarus, Masha’s nerve failed her. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice, thinking what a stupid answer that was.

But the Cossack’s blue eyes grew friendlier by the minute. “That makes two of us,” he said, “because I can’t say how I came here either. One minute I’m drinking and dancing with my friends by my melon patch; the next, that sneaking cowardly devil has whisked me off here and I can’t finish the hopak, may his toenails rot off.”

“The devil?”

“Who else but that miserable lump of sheep’s offal? Wait till I get my hands on him – I’ll tie his ears round his ankles and kick him into the middle of next week.”

“The middle of next week,” somebody distinctly said behind them.

They both turned round. Beneath the starry sky and the soft shade of the willow trees, nobody was there. Masha realized she’d taken hold of one of the Cossack’s big warm hands in fright. She was a bit embarrassed, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“What a sly one,” he said. “Will the wretch come out into the open? Of course not. A pair of honest Ukrainians like us is enough to scare the tiny wits out of his turnip of a skull.”

Silence all round. Maybe the Cossack was right.

“Where in the world, or out of it, are we?” he mused, tugging at the fat moustache which drooped down to his chin. “Where has that interfering slyboots brought us?”

“I sort of know,” said Masha. “I mean, I think I recognize it – only I don’t quite know where it is.”

“That’s not very helpful,” the Cossack commented.

Masha looked around again, hoping to spot a familiar landmark. She pulled at his hand in excitement.

“Look! Something’s over there.”

Beneath the trees was a glow of eerie, greenish light. They approached cautiously. It came from a candle standing on a long, raised hump of ground overgrown with ferns. The green-tinged flame stretched itself up tall, then squashed down small and guttering in a non-existent breeze. Then it went out.

It was dark and cold under the trees. The hump of ground looked sinisterly like a grave.

“Do you think someone’s buried there?” Masha whispered, clinging to the Cossack’s comforting hand.

“Not some
one
, some
thing
,” cried her companion. “Buried treasure, that’s what – I’ll bet my boots and my best bonnet.”

“Treasure?”

“Of course. What else would you expect to find in an enchanted place? Let’s get digging.” He detached his hand from hers and hitched up his trousers – and slapped his forehead with a cry of frustration. “No spade,” he groaned. “Have you got a spade?”

“No, but there’s one inside Icarus.”

“Icarus?”

“The trolleybus,” she explained. “It’s where I live. He’s just over here.” She turned round to where she could still dimly see the striped trolleybus sides, black and grey now in the darkness.

There was a click and a hum. The trolleybus headlights came on, illuminating two thick paths of light through the trees.

“Mind, please, the door is about to close,” said the precise, tinny voice of a recorded announcement, like that on the public trolleybuses that drove around the town. Icarus’s door scraped shut. “Next stop, Bare Mountain,” Masha thought she heard the voice, muffled now, announce. The hum rose to a whine and the trolleybus trundled away, squeaking as it bounced over the uneven ground.

They stared after it open-mouthed.

“Now how am I going to get home?” wailed Masha. “How will I ever find Granny?”

The Cossack was tugging at his moustache again. “Me a grandfather, and I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he muttered. “The devil’s really up to his tricks tonight. And how are we going to mark this spot, hey? I’m damned if I’m going to lose sight of my treasure.”

He cast about on the ground until he caught sight of an old log lying under one of the trees.

“X marks the spot,” he said cheerfully, dragging the branch over to lie beside the candle.

Masha wrapped her arms around herself to try and stop shivering. “But we don’t know where we are,” she observed disconsolately, “so how can we find it again?”

“I thought you said you recognized it?”

“Yes, but it’s all wrong. Everything’s in the wrong place,” Masha tried to explain as the tears trickled down her nose. “I know there’s the river, and the allotments…”

As she looked about her again, she saw a plump round onion shape outlined against the sky behind the allotments.

“Isn’t that the church dome?” she said doubtfully.

“Of course it is!” exclaimed the Cossack. “Who says we’re lost? And over there on the other side, above the trees, that’s the pole of the deacon’s dovecote.”

Sure enough, it was, although who the deacon was Masha couldn’t imagine; the dovecote had been empty and abandoned as long as she had known it. The sight of the two familiar landmarks was such a relief, she almost forgot about Icarus’s mysterious departure.

“Now I know how to get home,” she said, sniffing furiously. “It’s this way.”

“So is my melon patch,” said the Cossack. “I wonder how many have been stolen while I’ve been gone.”

“And I wonder how Granny is. I must get back as quick as I can. Oh, please, will you come with me? I don’t know if she’s all right.”

She asked this because now it was quite dark, and the woods were silent and alarming, and the candle on the grave under the trees belonged to some other world than the one she was used to by day. The Cossack, even though she had met him under such strange circumstances, was big and friendly and didn’t seem to be frightened of anything. She didn’t think she could walk all the way back on her own, and find there – what?

“A young Cossack like you, afraid of the dark?” he said, rather unkindly. “Still, I don’t see why we can’t step out together, seeing as I’m heading in the same direction. We victims of the devil’s little jokes, may he be afflicted with corns, wind and nose pimples, ought to stick together.” He scratched his stomach and yawned hugely. “Come on then, young fellow. What’s this about your grandmother?”

G
ena, making his way down the sandy bank that led to the allotments and the river, came upon a scene of devastation. In the clear hot sunlight he had almost forgotten the storm of last night, which had left no mark on the high concrete tower block where he lived. But here the world was more impressionable. Fences were torn down, bushes flattened, leaves drowned in shining blue puddles and sand rucked up into drifts and ridges. A few allotment owners in shorts and bikinis picked their way among the debris, lamenting.

Gena began to worry how Masha and her grandmother had survived the storm. He hurried on, his feet sinking and sliding in the sand, to where their old trolleybus was beached beneath the silver-green willow trees.

There was a gleaming black Mercedes parked in the sunlight, its engine purring and all its dark tinted windows reflecting the sun dazzlingly. What a beautiful car! The shadows cast on its sides were satiny red and purple, and heat bounced off it in visible shimmers.

Gena cupped his hands to peek through a window. Catching sight of his round face peering in, the driver inside waved irritably and mouthed through the glass, “Go away.”

Gena backed off reluctantly. The car belonged to Masha’s rich Uncle Igor, and Gena had long held a sneaking hope that one day he’d get to sit inside on its sleek upholstery.

There was no sign of Igor today. The car sat in alien splendour on the yellow sand, immaculate amid the chaos. One of the willow trees had been uprooted and lay smashed against the bank. The tall hollyhocks were stretched out in a spatter of pink and red petals, like slaughtered soldiers, and the shattered raspberry canes were half buried in leaves and squashed fruit. One of the goats was busily licking up raspberry purée.

Gena was at Icarus’s door before he realized there was no door. He stopped, puzzled. Everything looked different after the storm. He picked his way round the battered trolleybus to the entrance on the other side, and the wires overhead creaked a little.

Masha was inside, surrounded by scattered books and forks and spoons. She was packing up clothes in a plastic bag.

“Hi,” said Gena. “It’s me. Wow, what a storm! What happened to your raspberries?”

Masha looked terrible. She had big dark rings under her eyes and her cheeks were all puffy as if she had been crying.

“What’s up?” he asked uncertainly.

“Oh, Gena,” she said in a trembling voice, “I’m so glad you’re here. Granny’s in hospital and everything’s a mess and I’ve got to take her some stuff. Please come with me. I don’t know if she’s all right, I don’t know what’s the matter with Icarus and I don’t know where I’m going to live and everything’s
awful
.”

She did not manage to tell him all that had happened until much later. First they went to the hospital, chauffeured by Uncle Igor’s driver, who kept his mirrored sunglasses on and lit a cigarette so that smoke curled and billowed in the air-conditioned interior of the Mercedes. Gena found it quite disappointing. He couldn’t enjoy the bouncy seats and the purring smoothness of the ride with Masha hunched up next to him all tense and nervous, clutching the bag of her grandmother’s things and refusing to talk because
he
– she indicated the supercilious driver lurking behind his shades – would hear.

At the hospital the nurse would not allow them in to see Babka Praskovia. They left the forlorn bag with a pair of slippers in it, and a toothbrush that Granny never used, and a nightdress she never wore.

“The driver’s supposed to take me to Uncle Igor’s but I really don’t want to go. Please can I come back with you instead?” Masha whispered. “Will your mother mind?”

“Why don’t you want to go to Igor’s?” If Gena had known someone with a brand new limited edition Mercedes, he’d have jumped at the chance to see where he lived. A few years ago, it was impossible for anyone in Ukraine to own such a car; even now there were very few people rich enough.

Masha only glared at him miserably, so he added, “All right, I’m sure Mama won’t mind.”

Masha leant forward. “Please take Gena home first,” she said to the driver, adding the address in a small voice.

The driver merely shrugged, but he took them as asked to the flat. Gena hoped that everyone would notice him getting out of the fabulous car, and was pleased to see that there were plenty of old ladies sitting on the benches by the entrance, enjoying the sunshine and watching with the appropriate level of interest.

Masha scrambled out of the car too. “I’m staying here,” she said quickly, and slammed the door.

The driver’s door opened and he looked as if he was going to step out after her. But then Gena got the distinct impression that his gaze, hidden behind the sunglasses, took in the old ladies on the benches watching what was going on with completely undisguised curiosity. Without a word the driver closed the door and the car slid away.

Gena’s mother Ira was wonderfully comforting. She hugged Masha lots of times, and gave them both cups of sweet tea and raspberries with cream. She would call Igor and organize everything so that Masha could stay, she said, and she promised to phone the hospital to find out when they could visit Granny.

All the stiffness and tension finally went out of Masha, and she collapsed onto the divan and told Gena the whole story. She told him about the storm and the ride, the candle on the grave, and how she had come back in the chill, whispering night to find Icarus the trolleybus parked where he had always been, the door open, and Granny lying still and silent on the muddy ground. Masha had run to the car park where the nightwatchman sat up in his cabin, and he had called an ambulance and dosed her with powerful coffee and condensed milk. She had waited the interminable time until the ambulance came, and white-coated strangers lifted Babka Praskovia inside, taking Masha along too to the hot, wailing, noisome hospital. Granny had been wheeled off to a ward and Masha, forgotten, had curled up to sleep in a corner. When they had finally remembered her and asked about relatives, the only person she could think of had been Uncle Igor.

“Why didn’t you call me?” asked Gena.

“They said it had to be a relative,” Masha said. She wished that she had called Gena and his mother instead.

“He’s not your relative,” Gena objected.

“No. But he’s supposed to help. Mama promised when she went away that he would,” Masha said fiercely. “He’s horrible. He only sent his driver.”

It was hard reliving the storm and the night while sitting here on cushions, the sun slanting in through the windows and drawing out a dim, baking smell from the furniture. Especially the Cossack – that was almost the strangest part of the adventure. Their walk home together along the mosquito-humming, black lapping river seemed absolutely dreamlike. He had kept on calling her a boy, until she became too embarrassed to correct him. He told her about his grandsons who helped look after his melon patch, making sure no one stole any melons while he was gone. He told her another story about the devil that made her scalp tingle, although his voice seemed to slither into the river and emerge again all smooth and wet and quiet as she walked along, sleepier and sleepier, the words washing into one ear and trickling out of the other…