Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [231]
It was a litany he quickly came to dread.
And then, the second afternoon, just when he expected it to begin again, she turned to him with apparent calm and asked: ‘Have you any money, Cossack?’
‘A little. Why?’
She looked at him in a matter-of-fact way, then pursed her lips.
‘Because I think I’m going to have a baby.’
‘You’re pregnant?’
‘I’m not sure but … maybe. My time never came.’
‘And it’s mine?’
‘Of course.’
He looked at the floor.
‘I know you won’t take me away.’ Her voice was flat, monotonous and far sadder than he had heard it before. ‘A Cossack can do anything, but you don’t want me. Anyway, it was just a dream.’
He said nothing.
‘But if you have some money,’ she said, ‘you can give me that.’
‘Perhaps you’re not pregnant,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Perhaps.’
Could it be a ploy? He did not think so.
‘But do you want to have it?’
‘Better yours than his.’
‘Won’t he know?’
She shrugged.
‘We’ll see,’ she replied.
He had a considerable amount of coins with him, some Polish, some Russian. He took out all the Russian and gave it to her.
‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘You can still keep the money and take me with you,’ she said with a sad, wry smile.
‘No.’
Neither of them spoke for a little time, but he was aware of her long fingers opening and closing over the little leather pouch of coins, kneading them. He knew that she was silently crying now, but did not move to her side, fearing it would make her worse.
When she spoke again, through her tears, it was in a soft voice that was little more than a moan.
‘You don’t know, do you, Cossack? You don’t know what it is to be alone.’
‘I am often alone.’ He said it, he supposed, not to justify himself but to comfort her.
She shook her head.
‘You’re alone with hope. You may be killed, but you’re on an adventure. You’re free, Cossack – free as a bird over the steppe. But I’m alone with nothing – don’t you see? Just the sky; just the earth. There’s no way out. It’s so terrible, don’t you see, to know that. To know you’re alone, for ever …’
He thought of her mother, the village of Dirty Place, and of her child.
‘You’re not alone,’ he said.
She did not reply.
‘I’m going,’ she said finally. ‘When do you leave?’
‘At dawn.’
She nodded, then smiled weakly.
‘Remember me.’
She had a bright red scarf which she placed, in the manner of all Russian women, over her head before departing.
The sky was clear, a wonderful pale blue, as he rode southwards from the little town of Russka in the early morning.
Two miles below the town there was a huge meadow that had been made by the monastery a few decades before.
And it was as he skirted this that he saw her, standing on one side of it, wearing her red scarf. For a moment he thought of riding over to see her, but he decided not to. It was better that way.
Some time later, he looked back.
She was still there, a tiny patch of redness in a huge expanse of green; a lonely figure on an endless plain. She watched him until he was out of sight.
Andrei rode south. Soon he would see the steppe again, and thatched cottages, and swaying fields of wheat.
What a strange and contradictory land this Muscovy was. Now that he was leaving it, his spirits seemed to lighten, as though a door to a dark room were being opened.
His mind drifted back to earlier days – to Anna. And then, suddenly, he thought of his old friend Stepan the Ox. He did not suppose he would see him again.
Freedom, that was the thing. Life was good. He was a dark and handsome fellow, there was no doubt about it. He felt his moustache – a true Cossack one.
His wide Cossack trousers flapped as the sun rose in the east and a little breeze got up.
Peter
Many times before in Russian history it had been thought that the end of days was approaching. But it was only in the second half of the seventeenth century that the new and ominous development began which convinced many that, this time, surely, the Apocalypse and the coming of the Antichrist must truly be at hand.
In order to understand Russia, it is important to remember that,