Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [465]
He was standing about a hundred yards away talking to a group of men and, for a moment, he was not aware that Suvorin and the boy were watching him. He was an unusual figure. One might have guessed he was in his late forties. His face was clean-shaven and marked by two deep lines that curved down his cheeks from the outer corners of each eye. There was a slight puffiness around the eyes themselves. And his head was covered with close-cropped, orange-red hair. ‘So that’s him,’ Suvorin murmured. ‘What a curious-looking fellow.’ He would certainly know him again.
A moment later, the stranger caught sight of them and slipped away.
Alexander, too, took careful note of the face. So this, he thought, is the face of the enemy. For some reason he had a feeling that he might see him again.
Little Ivan watched his Uncle Boris, fascinated. His uncle had not seen him enter the passage and was unaware of his presence.
Only a few minutes had passed since Boris had been talking to the man from the Suvorin factory outside. He had seemed quite casual then. ‘A ginger-haired fellow, eh? Well I never. About my age. Who did you say he was? Ivanov, eh? Never heard of him. And where did you say this fellow was staying? Out of Suvorin’s way, I suppose. Ah, yes. Just outside the town. Well, well. Good luck to him, and to you all.’
Yet there was nothing calm about his Uncle now. Little Ivan had never seen him so excited as he paced up and down the big storeroom muttering to himself.
‘Ivanov indeed. It’s that devil. That ginger-headed devil. Murderer! This time I’ll get you, though. I’ll not miss you this time. Ah, my poor Natalia.’
He was muttering so vehemently that little Ivan was rather frightened. After a minute or two he slipped out again. But whatever could it mean?
It was unusual for Uncle Boris to go out hunting on a summer night, and especially to walk for miles. But tonight, for some reason, was an exception.
‘I’m going down south to the marshes,’ he remarked blandly. ‘Find myself a good spot and see what the dawn brings.’ The nights were short and warm. All kinds of game came over the marshes in the early morning. Dusk saw Boris preparing his gun cheerfully. Before he went, Ivan saw him slip a large hunting knife into his belt. ‘Can’t I come too?’ he had begged, but Boris had just ruffled his hair and remarked: ‘Next time.’ Then as night fell, he had taken his boat, and paddled away towards the south.
It was only some time later, when she was putting him to bed, that the little boy had told his mother Arina about Uncle Boris’s strange behaviour and asked: ‘Who was Natalia?’
How oddly people were behaving that evening. Why had his mother turned so pale, then tried to hide it? And why, having told him to go to sleep and that she was going to join the rest of the family at a neighbour’s, had she instead slipped silently out of the village?
He had watched her out of the window. She had gone up the slope, towards the Bobrov house.
But if all these things were puzzling to little Ivan, the scene the next morning was terrible.
The dawn had just been breaking when he had awoken and gone outside; and he had just been enjoying the first, tentative sounds of the birds when Boris had appeared, walking through the gloom. He could see that his Uncle was furious about something, but it seemed that the fury was not directed at him, for Uncle Boris had even smiled as he paused to exchange a few words.
‘Anyone go up to the Bobrovs’ last night?’ The question was asked so casually, so easily, that the little fellow had not even thought as he answered.
‘Only Mama.’
And now, as the family stood before him in the izba, Boris Romanov was trembling with rage.
‘You warned him, didn’t you?’
Arina quailed; yet even now, there was a hint of righteous defiance in her manner. ‘What if I did?’
‘What if you did? I’ll tell you what.’ And with a sudden spring he was upon her, knocking her down and hitting her twice, hard, in the face. ‘You stupid cow! You Mordvinian!’
‘Don