Gadfly in Russia by Sillitoe Alan;

Author:Sillitoe, Alan;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2016-04-12T04:00:00+00:00

Monday, 3 July

Three mighty rivers were behind me: the Dneiper, the Dneister, and the Danube. Having crossed the Sava at Sabac, the Drina was next.

Sleep had been deep and long enough, and little time was lost in getting back on the road – though with no sense of haste. After motoring through well-cultivated land, with sparse traffic, came the toil of many curves in the gorge of the Drina. A long stretch of unpaved road beyond the bridge at Dvornik was taken in good spirit by the car.

On pulling into a wayside caravanserai at half past ten I sat outside the main door by a well-used chicken yard. The rustic table I’d been pointed to wobbled enough to be genuine, though I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to buy it even at the top end of the Portobello Road. The liquid was hot and fragrant, and the man who served it seemed as happy as if seeing his first customer of the day.

After a bend in the road, feeling guilty perhaps at having so much space to myself, I drew in to offer three people a lift. There had been no trace of buses so far, but in any case it would save their fares should one miraculously come along.

The tall smartly dressed old man was as aloof and dignified as if I had appeared in exactly the car he had ordered, and that it had arrived a little too late for his liking. By his side, though not too close, a soberly dressed woman held the hand of a pretty young girl garbed in a kind of bridesmaid’s outfit. She may have been on her way to be married, but how could I ask? Playing the chauffeur, I got out, cleared the back seat, and saw them ceremoniously installed.

I wondered how to know when they wanted to alight. Perhaps I wouldn’t notice the imperative tap on my shoulder till we were beyond the Channel, and the grim immigration minions of officialdom ushered them to the pen for sending back – and me to prison for trying to smuggle them in.

Much I cared, but after fifty kilometres the old man’s tone told me we had come to the drop-off point, an isolated spot almost identical to the wooded area where I had taken them on board. I opened the door to let them out on the safe side. There was little traffic, but the occasional passing car always seemed in a blinding hurry to get to Sarajevo.

The old man shook my hand, and asked by putting a finger to his mouth, and pointing to an upgoing track towards a clump of houses, whether I wouldn’t like to go with them for food and drink, of which there would be plenty.

When in similar sign language I indicated that the ship must go on, he shook my hand again, and spoke his appreciation of the lift in what I supposed to be Serbo–Croat, though I couldn’t be sure, for I may already have been in Bosnia-Herzogovina.

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