Good People by Nir Baram

Author:Nir Baram
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2016-03-10T05:00:00+00:00

…

Every morning her husband rose early, thrust the axe into his belt and joined the men from the dachas on the hillside; they planted lemon trees, chopped wood for heating and weeded the gardens.

‘In this season, there aren’t too many high-profile people on holiday in Sochi. It’s a bit cold,’ Styopa said with a wink when he told her about the vacation. ‘So I could get one of the best dachas for you. You don’t want to know who lives in them during the summer, names everyone knows.’

‘Styopa, I just want to get back to work,’ she had replied. ‘I need you to make me laugh.’

‘When you come back, I’ll make you laugh as much as you like,’ Styopa had answered. ‘Would you rather go to the healing waters of Borjomi? Anything is possible. Just say the word.’

‘Dear Styopa, your concern truly warms my heart.’ She had practised the line. ‘But I need the routine of work. I believe that’s what’s best for me.’

‘You’ll come back, my dear. After all, without you we’re done for.’

He had been adamant about the need for a holiday. He was as cheerful as ever but he looked at her forensically, doubtless seeking evidence for the rumour Reznikov had circulated, that she had gone mad after the incident with Morozovsky. ‘But first of all, you have to get your strength back. Your husband will join you. We decided long ago that he needs a vacation. We must take very good care of such a dedicated man.’

After Maxim went off with his axe, she would lie in bed for a little while, picking at the tray of little treats he prepared for her every morning, and then she would dress and sit on the balcony that surrounded the wooden building. The house was at the top of a steep hill overlooking the sea; a few smaller dachas were scattered below it. She would sit at a round wicker table with her chin thrust into the fur lapel of her coat (when they reached Sochi she discovered that Maxim hadn’t packed a single one of her scarves, but he had somehow squeezed her spring wedding dress into the suitcase) and look across the slope which gave way to a dark green fringe. It was a panorama of enchanting movement: horses and their straight-backed riders galloped on the shore; in the west, bands of hunters with shining rifles belted to their backs strode towards the forest. Small boats bobbed on the waves that turned grey as the hours passed, and on the distant horizon clouds swirled around the jagged, snowy peaks of Krasnaya Polyana, which looked like small human heads. Sometimes, in the afternoon, the sun would shoot against it and a white gleam, as silver as mercury, would quiver up there. She called it ‘a burning angel dancing on the mountain’, and a swift glance was enough to bring a tear.

After lunch she would walk in the garden and sometimes, with her unbandaged hand, she would prune the raspberry bushes alongside the path.

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