Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [535]
‘How about the Church?’
‘I’m an atheist,’ Sergei said firmly. ‘I can’t believe. But if others wish to, they should be free to do so.’ Then he smiled. ‘My mother believed. She used to go to secret services in people’s houses. Did you know about that?’
Paul had heard of this secret religious activity. No one knew exactly how it was organized. It was known as the Catacomb Church, after the secret, underground worshipping of early Christian times; but he was aware that ever since the early days of the Soviet state, there had been a large network of priests, often moving from one region to another, who held secret services for the faithful in cabins, barns, or hideouts in the woods all over Russia.
‘Perhaps if Russian culture returns, you may become a religious believer too,’ he said with a smile.
‘I doubt it.’
They drove some way towards the city of Vladimir before turning south. Several times Sergei seemed to get lost, but managed eventually to find the narrow road that apparently led towards Russka.
Having relieved his feelings about his culture, Sergei seemed anxious to talk of other matters. He spoke of things he had seen in the West, and asked Bobrov about his business. ‘You market computers, don’t you? Tell me exactly how it works.’
This was not easy, but Paul did his best. He outlined the whole marketing plan for a new product from market research, all the way through to the advertising, and the sales-kits. ‘Then,’ he said with a grin, ‘I have to sell it to the salesmen.’ It was the same pattern, pretty much, he explained, for any product. And all the time, Sergei Romanov nodded and said: ‘Ah yes, this is what we should have.’
It was late morning when they reached the little town of Russka.
It was a terrible disappointment.
Thanks to his grandmother’s information, it was now Paul Bobrov who conducted Romanov around. The town was rather run down. The great watchtower, with its high tent roof, still stood. So did most of the houses in the town, though he noticed that the larger, merchant houses by the little park had been split into apartments and their gardens left to grow high with bushes and brambles. The stone church by the marketplace, however, was in a sorry state and had clearly not been used in decades.
He found that one of the factories there was making bicycles; but the textile business still existed, in that the other was making woollen blankets. Having made a tour of the sad little town, he led Sergei down to the river and walked him along the path to the springs. They, at least, had not altered, and the two men sat for some time on the green mossy bank and listened to the sounds of the water splashing down.
By now, however, Paul was impatient to see the old Bobrov house; and as soon as they had walked back from the springs, they got into the car and drove across the bridge and along the bumpy path through the wood.
The village was much as Nadezhda had described it. There were no Romanovs there now, and Sergei had no idea which house had been his family’s; but once again, remembering all Nadezhda had said, Paul was able to take him to the handsome two-storey house with the carved gables, and tell him: ‘This is where Boris Romanov used to live.’
There was only one thing that puzzled him: as they went round he kept looking up the slope towards where, he was sure, the old Bobrov house should be. But he could not see it. Finally he asked a villager: ‘Where’s the big house?’ And the fellow explained: ‘They say there was one up the hill there. But I never saw it.’
And so it proved to be. When they walked up