Watson, Ian - Novel 11 (23 page)

 
          
“Past
events can be altered. History gets rewritten. Well, we’ve just found that this
applies to the real world too.” Felix tossed the copy of
Four Plays
on to the sofa and strode about. “Maybe it’s happening
to us all the time, without us realizing? Maybe the real history of the world
is changing constantly!
And why?
Because
history is a fiction.
It’s a dream in the mind of humanity, forever
striving . . . towards what?
Towards perfection.”

 
          
“Oh
yes, and how about
Auschwitz
?” retorted Mikhail.
“And
the Inquisition?
And Genghis Khan?
It’s a
grotesque parade, this world, that’s all it is.”

 
          
“A
dream in the mind . . .” Sergey echoed Felix’s words in a sinister tone. He
snapped his fingers. “Might I suggest that we’ve all been taken for a ride—by
the master hypnotist
himself!
” “Sergey. Please.”

 
          
“No
listen, Felix.
He
hypnotised the lot
of us—that’s the simplest explanation! This has nothing to do with mass
suggestion coming from Mikhail. Victor Kirilenko—
him
\—he hypnotised the whole bunch of us into believing that
Chekhov ever did write a play called
The
Cherry Orchard.
Or
Uncle
Vanya.
Or
The Seagull . . .
It’s that man who persuaded us the
Tunguska
bang happened a few years after Chekhov’s death. He bloody well mesmerised us
with these lies—just to see how we’d all react when the
true version
popped up out of Mikhail’s subconscious, as he knew it
must do. It’s a psychology experiment, that’s what it is—and all at our
expense!”

 
          
“I
suppose,” said Kirilenko bitterly, “this is one way of adapting yourself
psychologically . . .”

 
          
“And
as for this Anton Astrov nonsense: that was because Mikhail’s mind has been
struggling to reconcile this farrago of lies—with what he knows deep down. I’ve
done you an injustice, Mike!” Sergey opened his arms to embrace the actor; but
Mikhail fended him off.

 
          
Kirilenko
jumped up. “You do me an injustice! I really protest my innocence.
Most sincerely!”

 
          
Sergey
sneered. “Only animals and savages are ever sincere: so said Anton. He knew a
thing or two.”

 
          
“But
that isn’t how Dr Kirilenko proceeds,” cried Sonya hotly. “Not
ever.”

 
          
Sergey
ignored her. “Oh, what marvellous political applications this could have! To
persuade people that things are other than they are ... that some things never
happened,
and other things happened instead . . . But we’d
better test it out on a small scale first, eh chaps? Something unpolitical. . .
The Stanislavsky Film Unit of Krasnoyarsk
seem
like a
good gang of dupes.”

 
          
“But
this is preposterous!” Kirilenko advanced, as though to break Sergey over his
knee. “I demand an apology.”

 
          
“And
maybe, when we wake up tomorrow, we’ll no longer remember
The Cherry Orchard
at all!”

 
          
Mikhail
chewed at his nails; his face was haunted. “I can’t star in a film, knowing all
these.
. . these ambiguities!” He tore a meniscus of
nail loose and spat it on to the carpet.

 
          
“Yes,
you must apologize, Mr Gorodsky,” insisted Sonya. “What you said is grossly
unfair.”

 
          
“It
would be a far, far better thing,” said Mikhail to her softly, “if he
was
to hypnotise the whole lot of
us—right now. And himself, as well! Yes, and tell us all to forget about this
other Anton who wrote
The Cherry Orchard
... I can’t bear to be haunted by mystery till the day I die.”

 
          
“Is
that what you really want?” shouted Kirilenko.
“Oblivion?
The blindfolds pulled down?”

 
          
Mikhail
flapped his hands helplessly. “Look, Anton would have said that it’s
meaningless to blather on about a mystery. He’d have gone off, and written
an
. . .
Apple Orchard
,
yes!
An
Apple Orchard.
And he did, too. . . Speaking of which ... I think I’ll take myself off
somewhere quiet, and read it. Just to see what it’s all about. . He retrieved
Four Plays
from the sofa, and slapped
his jacket pocket with his free hand as though he had just slipped the book
inside, though he was still clutching the volume in his other hand. “Frankly, I
don’t care a hang any more. It’s all a grotesque parade—how can we make sense
out of anything? No, you stay here, Sonya—I want to be on my own for a while.’’

 
          
Sonya
subsided; and Mikhail departed, leaving the doors half open. Osip pulled out a
pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and was promptly racked by a coughing fit.

 
          
“Oh
shut up!’’ snapped Sergey.

 
          
“I
suppose,’’ mused Felix, “we ought to be grateful that there’s
something
in the universe, rather than
nothing ... I mean, when you do come down to it: an apple orchard, instead of a
cherry orchard—what’s the odds?
Apples or cherries?
Cherries or apples?
You can stew up
a
tasty
compote with either of them . . .’’

 
          
Osip
thumped himself on his chest, to clear it. “Yeah, let’s not get worked up in a
stew. Let’s keep our heads screwed on.
And our feet on the
ground.’’
He flicked ash carelessly at the carpet. “Who do you reckon
won the match at the Dynamo Stadium, eh?’’

 
          
“Both
sides lost,’’ Sergey said sourly.

 
          
The
noise of a pistol shot, coming from the direction of the library, sounded just
like a champagne cork popping out of a bottle. But they all realized at once
exactly what it was.

 
          
Sonya was THE
first through the double
doors. Felix hurried after her. “It’s okay! Don’t panic! It’s just a blank.
Mike found the gun in a basket of props. He was fooling round with it earlier
on. That’s all it is: a prop . . .”

 
          
Sergey
thrust past him. “The bloody joker, I’ll settle his hash.’’

 
          
“It
in’t my fault,’’ cried Osip, from behind. “I never knew about any pistol in
them baskets, honest . . .’’

 
          
But
Mikhail lay sprawled out on the parquet floor of the library, amidst the gloomy
mahogany bookcases and the dusty, wingback chairs draped with antimacassars.
Blood was pouring from his head. His finger was still tangled in the trigger
guard.

 
          
Sonya
screamed,
then
knelt by Mikhail, rocking back and
forth.

 
          
“Don’t
touch!’’ warned Felix. Urgently he turned to Osip. “Be quick, ring for an
ambulance—’’

 
          
“Don’t
do it, Osip!’’ shouted Sergey. “Don’t be a fool!
Ambulance?
Police, questions?
We don’t know what our story is
yet.’’

 
          
Kirilenko
knelt by Mikhail, too, and felt his pulse. Then he inspected the wound closely.

 
          
“It’s
all right, Sonya, he’s alive . . . His pulse is steady.’’ He crouched lower.
“Quiet please, everyone! He’s still breathing perfectly well... I don’t think
he’s in any danger. The bullet just creased his skull. It tore his scalp.’’

 
          
“So
much
blood
—’’

 
          
“Of
course there’s a lot of blood flow from the scalp,
Doctor
Suslova! But he’ll live.” Kirilenko applied a handkerchief
to the wound. “I’ll just staunch this . . . Osip, fetch me a bowl of hot
water—and I want the First Aid kit. I need scissors, dressing and plaster.”

 
          
This
time Osip did hurry
^r
r
f
.

 
          
Sonya
looked up. “But we
must
call an
ambulance.”

 
          
“Let’s
not react hastily. We mightn’t need outside help. I’ll know in a moment or so.
A few
minutes’delay
won’t harm him. . . If that gun’s
a stage prop, where did he get a live bullet from? Was it a lucky charm?
Something he kept out of devilry?”

 
          
Stooping,
Sergey eased the pistol out of Mikhail’s hand. Straightening up, he broke the
chamber open.

 
          
“Well,
it’s
empty now . . . Damn it, if this was a blank
pistol it oughtn’t to be able to take live ammo. This isn’t any prop—what’s it
doing here?”

 
          
“Maybe
it
is
Osip’s?” said Felix. “He said
he didn’t know anything about it—so maybe he did? Methinks the lady doth
protest . . .”

 
          
“Perhaps,”
said Kirilenko, “it
was
a stage prop
earlier on this weekend . . .”

 
          
“What
do you mean by that?”

 
          
“And
now it isn’t. Not any longer.”

 
          
“Will
somebody please call an ambulance?” Sonya begged. “Or else I will.”

 
          
Kirilenko
gripped her arm tightly with one hand. “If you really wanted to, you’d be doing
that now—not asking us. The answer’s no. The bullet only grazed the bone. Maybe
he’ll have some concussion, and a rotten headache—but there won’t be any
internal damage. He’s lucky.”

 
          
“Is
that what he is:
lucky
? So why did he
do
it?”

 
          
“Too
much Chekhov on the brain,” snapped Sergey. “He must have got a bloody big
surprise when the gun went off.”

 
          
Soon
Osip bustled in with a First Aid box and a bowl of hot water. Kirilenko
rummaged for scissors and began snipping away Mikhail’s blood-matted hair.

           
While this was going on, Felix
cornered the caretaker. “Do you swear you know nothing about the gun?”

 
          
“What
do I want a gun for?”

 
          
“Well,
how did it get here, man?”

 
          
As
Kirilenko began sponging, Mikhail uttered a faint groan.

 
          
“Why,
that’s
Chekhov’s
pistol!” Sonya exclaimed
suddenly. “That’s the gun he brought out to
Siberia
with him. Now it’s been fired at last.
That’s it!”

 
          
“Brilliant!”
Sergey fairly snarled at her. “So Chekhov left his gun behind in
Krasnoyarsk
—and it’s been lying around in a basket ever
since, waiting for us? How clever of you, Sherlock Suslova. That solves it all.
77/ tell you what’s to be done: Osip is going to take the gun out and bury it
in the woods—right now. And we’ll all forget about it. Okay, Ossy?”

 
          
“If
the Professor says Mr Petrov’s
okay.
. .That seems
sensible. I mean, we don’t want any more trouble—we’ve got enough on our plate
as it is.”

 
          
Kirilenko
bandaged Mikhail’s head tightly. Sergey strode over to Osip and thrust the
pistol at him. Hastily Osip fumbled it away out of sight.

 
          
“We
can say he slipped on the ice,” said the caretaker. “Cracked his noddle, he
did. That’s simple enough.”

 
          
Shortly,
Mikhail opened his eyes and moaned. Felix bent over him. “You had a little
accident, Mike.”

 
          
“Uh?”

 
          
“An accident.”

           
“Eh? What? Did I?”

 
          
“You
did.”

 
          
“Don’t
remember a thing—what’s all this blood?”

 
          
“It’s
yours, dear boy. By the way, can you tell me: what
is
the last thing you reme
^r
nber?”

 
          
“Uh?
Oh, I was thumbing through
The Apple Orchard."

 
          
“And
an apple fell down on his noddle—as on Isaac Newton’s.”

 
          
“Hush, Sergey!
Now, Mike, tell me: what
is The Apple Orchard
?”

 
          
“Eh?
What a thing to ask a wounded trooper.” Mikhail began struggling to sit up.
Kirilenko restrained him. Mikhail lay back on the parquet, squinting up. “Well,
last time I was around it was a certain comedy by old Anton Pavlovich—”

 
          
“Mmm.
And how about
The
Cherry Orchard
?”

 
          
“Dunno.
Old Antosha wrote an
Apple Orchard.
Well, he did, an* all! What are you lot staring at me for? I
ain’t
never
heard of any
Cherry Orchard
.”

 
          
“You
aren’t by any chance having us on, dear boy?”

 
          
“About what?
Look, my head’s hurting.”

 
          
“My
poor baby,” crooned Sonya. She stroked Mikhail’s cheek. “I repeat: you aren’t
having us on about
The Apple Orchard
?”
“Of course I ain’t having you on, you daft bugger. What am I
lying
on the floor for?”

 
          
“A
meteor banged you on the grey matter,” said Sergey. “What did you think?
Happens all the time.”

 
          
Sonya
cradled Mikhail. “My poor
baby shot himself—don’t
mock
him.”

 
          
“Shot?
Myself?
What with?”

 
          
“With a gun.”

 
          
“Where
is it, then? Show me!”

 
          
However,
Osip had already ambled, crab-like, out of the library to conceal the evidence
. . .

 
          
“Never
mind about that,” said Felix.
“How about
Uncle Vanya?”

 
          
“Eh?
I haven’t got any Uncle Vanya.”

 
          
“Written by the well-known Mr A. P. Chekhov.”

 
          
“Ah,
you mean
Uncle Ivan
¹
.
Why
not call a thing by its proper name? What is this, anyway: a drama quiz in a
loony bin? You beat somebody over the head, and ask them stupid questions while
they’re lying half-witted.” Reaching up, Mikhail caught hold of Kirilenko’s
lapel. “Is this another one of your fabulous new psycho-techniques?”

 
          
Firmly
Kirilenko removed Mikhail’s hand. “It is not. I assure you.’’

 
          
“And
how about Commander Anton Astrov?’’ pursued Felix.

 
          
“Uh?’’

 
          
“Of the time-ship
Tsiolkovsky
.”

 
          
“I
give up! You’re all barmy. God, I feel dizzy.’’ Mikhail shut his eyes tight.

 
          
“And
why are we in this building, Mike—can you tell me that?’’

 
          
Mikhail
opened his left eye a crack.
“Could it be to play charades?’’

 
          
“Please
be serious.’’

 
          
“Well,
we’re here to rough out the plot for a film, ain’t we?’’

 
          
“Yes?
Carry on.’’

 
          
“Called Chekhov’s
Journey."

           
“And what’s it about?’’

 
          
“It’s
about Chekhov’s bloody journey, what else? It’s about his sodding Tunguska
Expedition. Now, if the interrogation’s quite over, can I please get up? I’ll
feel a lot safer up on my feet than with you lot all leering down at me.’’

 
          
Sonya
grasped his arm, and Kirilenko took his other arm. Together they helped Mikhail
up, and over to the nearest chair. His eyes watered. His bandaged head lolled
against the antimacassar.

 
          
“If
only you knew,’’ murmured Sonya. “If only you knew.’’

 
          
“If
only I knew what?’’

 
          
“If
I told you it wouldn’t help your headache much.’’

 
          
Kirilenko
collected up the First Aid box and his blood-stained hanky. After a moment’s
hesitation, he stuffed these into an empty space in one of the bookcases,
directly following on the last volume of the
Collected Works
of M. M. Gorky. From somewhere outside came a faint
thumping sound: Osip must be trying to hack a hole in the frozen ground with a
pick or a chopping hoe, to bury the pistol . . .

           
“If only ... If only I’d never come
here,’’ said Kirilenko. “But I did. So now we’ve collided with another world .
. .’’

 
          
Misunderstanding
him, Mikhail rubbed his bandages ruefully.
“Just as the past
collided with the future, at the time of the Revolution!
Or was it with
my skull—eh, Sergey? Ah well: onward into the future, say I!
A
future of hope and happiness!’’
He cupped a hand behind his ear. “
Hark,
do I hear the jingle of the harness bells? Or is it my
head that’s ringing?’’