the sky to milk a luminous cow. In her ecstasy at the lights blazing across the black night, she had left her head behind. The whole city was ripping open at the seams.
‘You made these?’ said Lom.
‘All the time,’ said Vishnik.’Always.’ He picked one out and showed it to Maroussia. ‘This is today’s. It’s a good one.’
She looked at it and passed it to Lom. The print was still damp. It had been taken in a café or a bakery, something like that. There was a girl in a black dress floating in the air. Up near the ceiling. The top had come off the counter: it was up there with her.
‘These are good,’ said Lom. ‘How do you do it?’
‘What, you think these are fakes?’ said Vishnik.
‘Well—’
‘Fuck off with fakes. Of course they’re not fucking fakes. This is what’s happening. Out there. This is the city. Maroussia has seen this.’ He looked at her. ‘No? Am I not right?’
‘Yes,’ said Maroussia. ‘It’s the Pollandore.’
‘See?’ said Vishnik. ‘Shit. Why would I make such stuff up? Why do fakes? Fuck, Vissarion. You’ve been a policeman too long.’
Maroussia stared at Lom.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What did he say? You? You’re the police?’
Lom didn’t say anything.
‘Well,’ said Vishnik. The colour had drained from his face. ‘Yes, I suppose he is a policeman. Of a sort. But a good policeman. Not really a policeman at all.’
‘Raku?’ said Maroussia quietly. ‘What have you done?’
‘It’s OK,’ said Lom. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t—’
But Maroussia was on her feet, gathering her coat. Her face was closed up tight. She looked… alone. He wanted to reach out to her. He didn’t want her to go, not like this.
‘Maroussia—’ he said.
‘Leave me alone. Don’t say anything to me. I’ve made a mistake. I have to go.’
Vishnik was aghast.
‘No.’ he said. ‘Don’t go. Not when we’ve just… Fuck. Fuck. But it’s fine. Vissarion is a friend. Your friend.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Raku,’ said Maroussia. ‘That could never be.’
Lom watched her walk out the room, straight and taut and brave. He felt something break open quietly inside him. A new rawness. An empty fullness. An uncertainty that felt like sadness or hunger, but wasn’t.
24
In a train travelling west towards Mirgorod there is a first-class compartment with its window blinds drawn, which the guards think is empty and locked. The guards know – though they couldn’t say how they know – that there’s something wrong with it, something ill-defined which needs a mechanic, which makes it unsuitable for occupation, and which they themselves should keep clear of. That’s fine. No inconvenience for them. It’s the end compartment of the furthest carriage, and first class is barely a quarter full. When they arrive in Mirgorod there’ll be the fuss of detraining, and by the time that’s done the episode of the closed compartment will be forgotten. When the train’s ready to leave again, the compartment will be fine, except – should anyone notice, which isn’t likely – for a lingering trace of ozone and leaf- mould in the air.
Just at the moment there are two figures sitting opposite each other in the darkness of the closed and blinded compartment. They are making a long journey. Should anyone happen to see them – which nobody does – they would appear to be human: two women, not young, riding in composed, restful, silent patience, swaying slightly with the movement of the train. Both appear to be dressed in layers of thin cloth in muted woodland colours of bark and moss. Their heads are covered, their faces lost in shadow. Or they would be, if they had faces, which – strictly speaking – neither does.
One of them – the one facing the direction of travel, as if eager to reach her destination, for her purpose is to arrive – is a paluba. The word is complex: its possible meanings include old woman, witch, hag, female tramp, manikin, tailor’s dummy, waxwork, puppet and doll, none of which is exactly accurate here, though all have some bearing on the true nature of the figure, which is an artefact carefully constructed of birch branches and earth and the bones of small birds and mammals. The paluba is a kind of vehicle, a conveyance, currently travelling inside another conveyance, artfully made to carry the awareness of its creator and act as a proxy body for her, while she herself remains in the endless forest, in the safety of the trees which she can never leave.